


Sly Cooper and the Gang in...The Vigilante Police

by cooopercrisp



Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cooopercrisp/pseuds/cooopercrisp
Summary: What happens when the members of the broken Cooper Gang encounter police officers who think they are above the law?Note: The story was originally created in 2010, so because of that it diverges from canon after the events of the third game in the series.
Relationships: Bentley/Penelope (Sly Cooper), Sly Cooper/Carmelita Fox
Comments: 16
Kudos: 4





	1. A Shell of His Former Self

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a very old fic I started on fanfiction dot net starring Sly Cooper and the gang. Not sure if I'll be returning to it, but I figured I would cross-post here to gauge engagement. Let me know if you like what you've read. I appreciate it.

_A LESSON ON TIME TRAVEL_

_As Written by Bentley "The Wiseturtle"_

_It is a supreme honor to be the first thief outside of the Cooper family to chronicle my adventures in these pages. Contradictorily, it is with great dismay that my first significant entry is one depicting great personal shortcomings._

_I had originally hoped that my experiments in the development of a time travelling machine would yield stronger results, results that would be on par with my other achievements while working with my lifelong friends. Therefore, it is with a heavy heart that I have come to realize that time travelling is a scientific achievement that is simply beyond my reach._

_Penelope has done all she can to help me, bless her heart, but even with her collaboration I have made no headway whatsoever. I attribute this failure to the sensitivity of the theoretical space-time continuum from which my experiments derived. To put it more plainly, there are far too many variables in my equations for my computer system to calculate. A more concise system of equations is necessary to successfully streamline the computer programming; however, in my research, I have not found a satisfactory system._

_I fear I must abandon the project until further scientific advancement in the field of time travel can be published. I would gladly develop and contribute my own theories; however, given my extensive criminal background, it will be next to impossible to have my theories published and reviewed by the scientific community at large._

_Thus―just as the great Slaigh MacCooper attempted to break through the side of a mountain with his bare hands―I have reached a dead end._

Bentley looked over his writings and concluded that they sufficiently captured his present mood. He hated to abandon a project of this scope, after all of the time he put into research and experiments, but the project had finally become more trouble than it was worth. He had decided that he needed to take more active measures to reunite his old team and restore those old friendships.

It was the year 2007―two years since the Cooper Gang's first foray into the ancestral Cooper vault, two years since the last surviving heir had succumbed to amnesia and forgotten who he was. It still pained Bentley to think that Sly Cooper had truly forgotten him, but all the evidence suggested that he had.

Initially, Bentley had hoped that Sly was faking his amnesia in order to allow his relationship with Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox to develop. It was the only way, Bentley thought, for a lifelong thief to be romantically involved with a high-standing police officer without causing uproar. One roguish wink from Sly seemed to confirm this theory, but other developments had led Bentley to give up hope. No matter how persuasive Sly was―and Bentley knew that he was very persuasive―he could not have hoped to fake amnesia for two years without somebody discovering those intentions, especially when he spent so much of his time with one of the most intelligent police officers around. Additionally, Sly would surely have tried to contact Bentley or Murray, friends of his since he was a small child, to let them know what his intentions were. But Bentley had never received a message from Sly, and when he had called Murray the other day, it was only to discover that Murray had heard no news as well.

The only logical conclusion was that Sly had really suffered strong amnesia, and over a span of time this long, Bentley feared that the memory loss was permanent. A weight far greater than that of Clockwerk's beak had crushed him when he had concluded this. He had not been able to hold back the tears that had poured from behind his thick glasses. Even Penelope had been unable to comfort him. He had not felt such anguish since Murray had left the team after Bentley's crippling injury, one that to this day left him bound to a wheelchair.

That was two years ago. He had spent all his time since working furiously on his time travelling machine, in a desperate attempt to observe the future and the fate of his friend. But now, all hope for completing the time travelling machine was gone, and this time he felt hollow, merely a shell of his former self.

This time Penelope decided that her pity would get Bentley nowhere. It was time for her to become uncharacteristically harsh, which was a huge challenge for a mouse. She steeled herself when she approached Bentley, but as soon as he looked at her, with such weariness etched in his face, she almost lost her composure and reverted to pitying him again.

But no. This time she was resolute.

"Bentley," she said sternly, which caught him by surprise, "enough is enough. You've made no headway on that time travelling machine, and it's high time you tried a more direct way to bring Sly home."

"What do you mean, Penelope?" asked Bentley. His voice always sounded like it was congested, but Penelope could sense the weariness in it.

"I mean, if you want to bring him back, you need to go out and find him. You can't just sit here, working on an impossible machine only to see what the future holds. You need to make your own future!"

"But I can't do that, Penelope," he said, and this time Penelope did not need to fake harshness. It came naturally along with her building frustration. Bentley had been telling her he couldn't confront Sly for two years.

"Why not? Are you too afraid he'll reject you?"

"No, Penelope, I'm afraid he'll arrest me the moment he sees me!" Her frustration vanished. Of course Bentley couldn't just run into Sly on the street and say hi. Sly was now an officer at Interpol.

"I…I didn't think of that…" she said lamely.

"Obviously," Bentley muttered. Penelope's frustration rose again.

"Don't start talking to me like that! I'm only trying to help you." Yes, for two years Penelope had only been trying to help. But clearly, her help had not gotten them anywhere.

"You want to help me?" Bentley asked. "Maybe you can show a little more sympathy to a guy who's lost his best friend!"

"I am," Penelope said. "You don't know it, but I am. I'm trying to get you out of this funk so you can actually find your friend."

"But Sly will―"

"I could help you find a disguise," Penelope suggested. "I could help you work on a treatment for amnesia. I could help you kidnap the guy! But please, let's hope a wildly impossible time travelling machine isn't our last hope." Her words were finally starting to sink again. Bentley did not appreciate her emotions at all, but there was no denying her logic. There were far more practical ways to reach Sly. He could not understand why he hadn't been able to see them.

"I thought I was helping you before," Penelope said, and this time there was sorrow in her voice. "I thought I had to support your endeavors with the time travelling machine. I thought I had to cheer for you like the good girlfriend. But all this time, I knew that it was futile. All this time, I knew I should have stopped you from pursuing this project. But all this time, I convinced myself I was doing the right thing. Now I know it was entirely wrong, and I'm sorry for not realizing it sooner." Bentley's own anger melted. He now understood the sacrifices Penelope had been making for him, and he now cursed himself for being so blind to the obvious truth.

"You don't have to apologize to me," Bentley said. "I was the one too foolish to realize the whole idea was a waste. Two whole years I squandered. I could have spent two whole years constructing the perfect disguise, developing a treatment for amnesia, or even executing an elaborate kidnapping. Any of those would have been better alternatives than this." And as he said this, he pointed to the obscene metallic monster of a device: the beginnings of a crude prototype for a time travelling machine. Its parts were jerry-rigged together in an entirely unappealing fashion, making it look like an appalling creation worthy of Frankenstein.

"Why didn't you stop, Bentley?" Penelope asked. "Why didn't you give it up?"

"I was afraid…" Bentley admitted after thinking about it for a minute. "I was afraid to confront Sly and have the truth confirmed before my eyes, that he would never remember me again." Tears began to trickle down Bentley's face, and Penelope finally lost her front of tough love. She went over to Bentley, held his face in her warm paws, and kissed him tenderly. This made Bentley cry even harder.

"I've been horrible to you!" he choked miserably. "All this time, barking orders at you like you were some servant, treating you like a piece of shit! That's not how I feel about you at all!" Penelope was taken aback; Bentley almost never used such harsh language.

"I know how you feel about me," Penelope said, still flustered. "I know you love me with all your heart."

"I do! I do! I love you more than anything, Penelope."

"And I love you, too, Bentley, more than anything." Bentley now wept openly as Penelope hugged him, trying to rub his back only to feel his hard, crusty shell. Bentley's glasses slid off-center as he cried into Penelope's shoulder. Tears now streamed down Penelope's face as well.

The two of them held each other for a long time before Bentley pulled back, fixing his glasses so they were perfectly centered.

"Could I hab a tissue?" he asked, his voice even stuffier than normal. Penelope chuckled softly and pulled some tissues out of her overall pockets. She always had them in store so Bentley could blow his nose. He did so now, and the ungodly sound made Penelope laugh even harder, which was such a relief after all the crying.

"Thanks," he said. "That's better."

"Don't mention it," Penelope said.

"No, I mean thanks for standing by me after all this time," Bentley said. "You should have left me a long time ago, the way I treated you."

"Absolutely not," Penelope said. "There's no way I would leave you for anything." Bentley smiled, as he knew that it was true. Penelope had been more loyal to him than anyone he had ever known, including Sly and Murray.

"I love you," Bentley said.

"I love you, too," said Penelope. The two of them kissed more passionately and deeply than they had in a long time and enormous relief washed over both of them.

"Okay," Bentley said after they stopped locking lips. "It's past time we take a more practical approach to reuniting with Sly. What do you propose we attempt first?" Penelope laughed, and the frames of Bentley's glasses―so much like real eyebrows―rose inquisitively.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Penelope replied. This irked Bentley slightly, as he preferred direct answers. "The only way you'll stand a chance at restoring Sly's memory is if you bring back every significant person, belonging, and event in his life." As she said this, Bentley already started thinking of such items: Sly's cane, the Thievius Raccoonus, pictures of his parents, and objects stolen in eventful heists. Then a pink hippo lodged himself so forcefully into Bentley's mind that it was a wonder he didn't think of him straight away. The hippo wore a pilot's mask, a grungy blue shirt, a thick blue scarf, and red gloves that looked more like battle gauntlets.

"Penelope," Bentley stated simply, "we need Murray back."

* * *

Murray groaned as the alarm awoke him. He had been dreaming that he was driving the getaway van through a large city, police officers shooting at him from all sides. It had been exhilarating, swerving around tight corners, ducking low as bullets smashed into the windshield, gazing over to make sure his best friends weren't harmed.

Of course, life as a stock-van driver was exhilarating on its own, at least it should have been. The thrill and excitement Murray had initially felt had worn off, to be replaced by a sore longing for his old life. He had never been separated from his friends for this long, not even when he left to undertake that spiritual quest.

The life of a high-risk racecar driver was taking its toll on Murray. As he tried to rise out of bed, he groaned at the sores running rampant through his body, winced at the bruises on his arms and legs. He was so battered that he was not able to keep up with his weight training. As a result, he was fatter and flabbier than he had been in a long time, and he was ashamed about it. No longer could he lift heavy iron bars as if they were sticks.

Murray was also mentally burnt out, due to the physical pain of his career and the emotional pain of his loss. Bentley was still in touch with him, and for that he was grateful beyond all measure. But Sly hadn't spoken to him in two years. Murray longed more than anything to see his best friend once again, but Bentley constantly warned him not to approach Sly unless he wanted to be sent to jail.

Murray accepted Bentley's advice without question, as he always had. Bentley had always known what to do, after all. But Murray couldn't help but notice the strain in Bentley's voice, which never used to exist. Murray could tell that the loss of Sly was putting stress on him, too.

But there was nothing for it. Bentley told Murray to keep living his own life, and Murray obliged, but his heart just wasn't in it anymore. Having done this for two years, Murray had lost all hope that his best friend would ever recover his memory.

But when Bentley called him later that day, his hope was kindled anew.

"Do you mean it?" Murray asked excitedly, talking to Bentley over the phone. "I can really come back?"

" _Yep. Penelope thinks exposing Sly to as much of his past as possible might help trigger his memories. Obviously, the whole plan just wouldn't work without you here._ "

"So Sly's gonna get his memory back?" Murray asked, excitement running through his voice as if he were a small child.

" _I can't make any promises, Murray. I can't guarantee that this will even work. All we're doing here is taking a shot, and trust me, pal, it's a long one. Don't get your hopes up just yet._ "

But Murray couldn't help but hold high hopes. As he drove to Paris, where Bentley had arranged that they meet, Murray couldn't help picturing his best friend wearing that blue shirt, donning that dark mask, and holding that pristine cane.

* * *

Sly Cooper had been working at Interpol for two years, and he had quickly risen to the rank of Inspector because of his uncanny ability to capture grand larcenists. Many of the officers joked that Sly was simply able to think like a thief.

His partner, the equally esteemed Inspector Fox, had worked with him over the two-year span. Though it was common practice to interchange partners at Interpol, Chief Barkley had made a notable exception for these two officers, even when rumors flew that they were more than just partners at the office. The pair was unstoppable. He had a knack at finding the thieves' secret hideouts; she, frankly, knew how to kick thieves' asses.

But this dream team had not come about easily. Chief Barkley had been floored when Carmelita had reported Sly's amnesia, and when she had said that she convinced Sly he was an officer at Interpol, he had thought the whole thing a joke. Only when Sly had come into his office and reported to him with unswerving respect had Chief Barkley continued the illusion.

And now Sly was a police officer. His name was on the payroll, he had official identification, and he sat at his own desk. It had been difficult work, but Chief Barkley had convinced the entire department to agree to the story that Sly had been a criminal until Carmelita had reformed him. That was close enough to the truth that Sly was not able to discover otherwise, though there had been close calls.

Many of the thieves Sly and Carmelita booked knew Sly, either through Thiefnet or simply because he was famous in the criminal world. They tried to remind him of the life he led as he arrested them, but thankfully Sly had seen this as an attempt to trick him into releasing them. It was a sign of his strong amnesia that he was more willing to believe Interpol about his past life than the thieves with whom he had once traded.

There were some at Interpol, though, who found Sly highly untrustworthy. They believed what Bentley once had, that he was merely faking amnesia to get into Inspector Fox's pants. Most of the officers who believed this were jealous, but others said it was the only logical conclusion, given Sly's obvious attempts to flirt with Carmelita prior to his memory loss. Still, they kept the illusion alive, if only because Chief Barkley threatened to fire them if they refused.

And so Sly had once again made a name for himself, only this time he had done it on the opposite side of the law.

The morning dawned one day in Paris, the sun peeking through the bedroom window of Carmelita's small flat. Sly yawned as the alarm awoke him, the bed sheets rustling as he stretched his long, lithe arms. Even his gray fur was not enough to keep him warm this winter, an unusually cold one for Paris.

Being cold was the furthest thing from his mind, however, when a woman rolled over and draped her arm over his stomach, kissing him softly on the neck. No, Sly thought with a smile as he gazed at his lover, Carmelita was the polar opposite of cold.

"Good morning," he cooed.

"Morning," Carmelita mumbled as she began to kiss his face.

"Sleep well?" Sly asked.

"Of course," she replied, and soon they were locking lips. Sly wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her warm, soft fur, tasting the moisture from her lips. Her blue hair, such a contrast to her reddish brown fur, fell down her back in frizzy curls, but Sly preferred it that way. It complemented visually her visceral energy when they had sex.

"We should do this more often," Sly said, once the kissing had subsided.

"Really?" Carmelita asked. "So every night isn't enough to satisfy you?"

"Nothing is enough to satisfy me," Sly said, and they kissed once again.

"Well, unless you want to start making love in the office, you're out of luck," Carmelita said. Neither of them had confirmed the rumors flying around Interpol. Carmelita knew that the situation between her and Sly was awkward enough as it is, given their complex history, and she didn't need her boss firing questions at her. Sly merely enjoyed keeping the secret; seeing his colleagues sweat it out when he dropped the oh-so-subtlest hints was too tantalizing to pass up.

"Maybe we can't do it in the office," Sly said, "but there's always the shower…" Carmelita smiled.

"Sly, my shower's small enough without you in it," Carmelita said. "It would be a very tight fit."

"My thoughts exactly," Sly said, with a devilish grin that Carmelita knew all too well. It was almost enough to make her give in, she always said to herself. Almost.

"Besides," Sly said, "we'll save time and use less water if we shower together. We could shave fifteen minutes off our morning routine."

"Sly, you and I both know we'd spend much longer than fifteen minutes in that shower together…" Sly purred. The hint of Spanish in that voice was so sexy.

"Well then we haven't got time to lose," Sly said, rising quickly from the bed. Carmelita smiled as she watched him wave his long, striped tail, and she couldn't help but think how appealing the idea was.

"Oh, come here," she said, dragging Sly into the small bathroom. Sly's smirk was scandalous when Carmelita turned the hot water on and brought him into the shower with her.

Sly had not underestimated the proportions in the slightest. It was a very tight fit.


	2. The Shooting of Loose-Tongued Larry

Jerry Lawrence was one of the few people who knew his own name. Within the criminal underground, he was simply known as "Loose-Tongued Larry," a testament to the ease at which he lied and cheated the rich and famous out of millions. He was a chameleon, slippery as they came, his eyes constantly shifting in two different directions. He was sharp, too, always knowing when he was being followed or when others tried to lie to him. He was not the least bit physically intimidating, but he was always flanked by two large bulldogs. Their presence frightened the living daylights out of the people he cheated, which made them that much easier to dupe.

Jerry's headquarters, though constantly changing, were always in the Paris suburbs, close to many rich and famous people, his biggest targets. Police officers made him laugh; he was able to avoid most with ease and the others he simply bribed. As a result, he had no criminal record on file, a huge accomplishment with the likes of Interpol breathing down his neck.

Jerry's good luck, though, was about to run out.

He was walking through an alleyway behind a nightclub that had been abandoned ever since its proprietor was arrested three years ago. His eyes were especially shifty; being caught here so late at night would look highly suspicious. As much as he was analyzing the windows of the surrounding buildings and the potential hiding spaces for cops, his eyes glossed over his two bodyguards, with whom he shared the highest trust.

Then, quick as a flash, one of the bulldogs lunged for Jerry's neck, cutting of his air and slamming him into the wall of the nightclub. The other guard reached immediately for his pistol, but the first guard already had his gun pointed at him.

"Drop it, Bruce," he said. Bruce's gun clattered on the pavement.

"Up against the wall." Bruce leaned up against the wall, his paws up, right next to Jerry. The other guard ignored Jerry's rasping and squirming, but smirked when Bruce stood stock still.

"Good boy, Bruce," the other guard said; Bruce glowered but made no retaliation. "All right!" the guard shouted into the air, and suddenly, to the horror of Jerry and Bruce, no less than ten cloaked figures emerged, seemingly out of the shadows. Jerry started rasping worse than ever; Bruce stayed composed but felt his heart pounding loudly.

"Thank you, Max," one of the figures said. He picked up Bruce's gun in his gloved hand and opened the chamber. It was fully armed. Satisfied, he pointed the gun at Jerry's head.

"Let him breathe," the figure said, and Max released his stranglehold. Jerry massaged his throat, gasping for air. "Keep an eye on the other one," he said, and Max stepped in front of Bruce, smirking.

Jerry, who seemed to have finally found his voice, started stammering. "Look, I don't know who you are or how the hell you convinced Max to help you, but if it's money you're after I am willing to pay whatever amount necessary to―"

"Shut up," the figure said, stretching his arm to emphasize the gun. "I'm not here for money."

"Well, if it's not money, then I have access to a host of other things―"

"I said shut up," the figure said, pushing the barrel of the gun into Jerry's skull. Jerry sputtered but said no more.

"'Loose-Tongued Larry,'" the figure said, "wanted on twenty counts of corporate fraud, including deception and overcharging of clients to place stock in a non-existent hedge fund. Does that sound right?" Jerry sputtered something that sounded like "no idea what you're talking about." His eyes were bugging out horribly, and he was trembling something vicious.

"No matter," the figure said, "Max has told us everything we need to know. Did you know that if you're convicted of these charges, you'll face a jail sentence of at least a hundred and thirty years?" Jerry made no reply, but the figure did not seem to be expecting one.

"Yes, but going through the trial process will use up so many resources," the figure continued. "First of all, it will take investigators years to amass all of the evidence necessary to indict you, and that might not even be enough to land a conviction. Then there's the necessary facility where you would be held prisoner, which costs all sorts of money to upkeep, not to mention the wages needed to pay the guards. And even if you are convicted, think of all that money needed to keep you fed and secure in prison for a hundred and thirty years, or however long you would rot." The other figures behind this one, who was no doubt the leader, grumbled, as if on cue. Then they became silent.

"Frankly, I think the whole process a complete waste of both time and resources, when the problem could be solved instead by a single bullet. Far more efficient, don't you think? Reliable, too; you could easily escape prison, but you cannot escape death." Jerry finally gained his voice again.

"Please don't kill me! Just take me to the cops, I'll do anything, I'll―" But the figure pulled the trigger, and Jerry's body slithered down the wall, blood flowing down his face. Bruce made to move, but Max shot him, and his body fell with a thud onto the pavement, his blood slowly trickling towards the lead figure, who stepped out of the way.

Max lowered his gun and turned to the figure. "Well, where's my money?" Before Max could react, the figure raised his gun and shot him in the head. Max fell with a sickening crack, dropping his gun in the pool of Bruce's blood. The figure turned to his followers.

"Make it look like a misunderstanding," he said, dropping the gun and walking out of the alleyway.

* * *

The Cooper getaway van had not been seen on public roadways in a long time, so as Murray sped past other cars on the Autoroute, he was received with looks of shock from the other commuters. Getting to Paris was easy enough; finding Bentley's hideout was another matter.

Bentley had given Murray a set of very complicated instructions on the Binocucom, which was the only method of communication they ever used. Murray, however, was very good at following directions, and he arrived at the run-down warehouse with little trouble. Murray knocked on the side door as instructed, and could hear a nasally voice address him from the other side.

"Where did you grow up?" Bentley asked.

"The Happy Camper orphanage," Murray replied, after which the door opened, revealing Bentley smiling broadly.

"It's good to see you again." Bentley let Murray in and allowed him to give him a hug. In his exuberance, Murray lifted Bentley out of the wheelchair and swung him around until Penelope implored Murray to set him down.

"Sorry about that," Murray said, replacing Bentley quickly and looking abashed.

"It's all right, Murray," Bentley said. Murray nodded and gave Penelope a far gentler hug, which Penelope returned gracefully.

"So what's the plan?" Murray asked.

"Follow me," Bentley said, and he led Murray to a corner of the warehouse where he had set up his desktop computer. It was a beauty, with a massive computer tower, two monitors and keyboards, and a printer/scanner on the side. On the desk was a stack of blueprints, which Murray recognized from two years ago.

"Are we breaking into the Cooper Vault again?" Murray asked.

"Well, we are going to Kaine Island again," Bentley said, "but once we get there it will be as easy as opening the front door." Bentley motioned over to Sly's cane, which was resting in the corner.

"Okay, then. How are we getting there?" Murray asked.

"I'll be flying us over," Penelope said. "I've been making adjustments to the biplane so it will fit the three of us and whatever valuables we take from the vault."

"But what are we taking?" Murray asked.

"The Clockwerk parts," Bentley said, and Murray's face dawned with comprehension. He remembered the time when Bentley and Penelope had been restoring the vault and contributing their own stolen valuables to the stores.

"We can leave in two days," Penelope said, now showing Murray the biplane hanging from the rafters.

"Sounds good!" Murray said.

* * *

Sly and Carmelita were awoken in the middle of the night by the ringing phone. Carmelita answered it, as they were in her apartment, not Sly's, but Sly could hear the panicked voice of Chief Barkley regardless.

"Loose-Tongued Larry and his bodyguards are dead. Get Sly up and bring him down here right away! I need you on the scene to find out what the hell happened! We found the bodies at Le Theatre Formidable, you know, where you busted Dimitri Lousteau! We need you down here now!" Carmelita hung up the phone, jumped out of bed, and started to dress. Sly did the same.

"What do you think?" he said as Carmelita started driving to Sly's apartment. It would look suspicious if Sly and Carmelita arrived in the same vehicle, when they supposedly lived on opposite sides of the city.

"It couldn't have been one of our guys," Carmelita said. "We haven't been able to spot this guy in six months. Maybe a deal went bad and somebody was paid to kill him."

"Yeah, but if a hit man's _that_ good, shouldn't we be worried?" Sly asked. Carmelita didn't answer.

They arrived at the crime scene to find that it had already been taped off. Sly could have sworn the area was familiar to him, especially the run-down nightclub, but he didn't know why. _I've probably patrolled here before_ , he thought.

When they crossed the tape, they saw the chameleon and the two bulldogs lying in pools of blood that still looked fresh. Apparently the three had only died hours before. Two guns were lying close to the two bulldogs, and Carmelita already started jumping to conclusions.

"I think I can explain this," she said to Chief Barkley, who was staring at the three bodies and puffing on a fat cigar, looking distressed. "It looks like the bulldogs just snapped and killed Larry before turning the guns on themselves. How else can you explain the guns landing on the ground so close to them?"

"It's possible," said Barkley, still looking distraught, "but what could have set them off?"

"It's hard to say," Carmelita said, "but it must have had something to do with money. Maybe they weren't being paid enough."

"Yes, but why would they kill _themselves_?" Barkley asked. Carmelita looked flustered.

"Well…" she said, thinking. "We have heard of cases about disgruntled workers snapping and killing other employees. Maybe something similar happened here."

Chief Barkley was dubious of this explanation, and Sly, who had not said anything up to this point, was doubtful as well. The hit man theory still weighed on his mind, and he finally spoke out now, in the lull.

"I'm not so sure," Sly said, crouching low and examining the bodies, taking care not to touch them. "Look at the wound on this guard." Sly was pointing to Bruce, though of course he did not know his name. "He was shot in the back of the head."

"So? He was probably booking it when he got shot by this one," Barkley said, pointing at Max.

"But why?" Sly asked. "This guy must have had a gun, too. Why not just shoot the other guy after he killed Larry, if that's what he did?" Sly was making some assumptions about the order of events, but as Larry was the only one without a gun near him, the assumption seemed reasonable.

"Well…" Chief Barkley said, "Maybe his gut instinct was to run."

"Hold on, hold on," Sly said. Chief Barkley didn't take well to being interrupted, but he waited patiently while Sly thought. His hands moved as if trying to piece invisible puzzle pieces together.

"Let's start from the beginning," Sly said. "It seems safe to say that these three, Larry and his guards, were walking in the alley."

"Yeah," Barkley said, shaking his head as though this was beyond obvious.

"And, I take it, the bodyguards were carrying the guns."

"You'd better be getting somewhere," Barkley said, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Well, then, who was shot first?" Sly asked. "Larry? Or one of the guards?" This was difficult to answer. There were two bullet wounds in the head, and one in the back, so it wasn't immediately obvious what happened and when.

"Never mind, that doesn't really matter," Sly said, and Barkley sighed. He would have been more upset if Sly didn't know what he was doing, but Sly had long since proved his worth as an officer. "How was Larry shot in the forehead?"

"Well, that's not hard to deduce," Barkley said. "One of the guards aimed his gun and―"

"If I know anything about bodyguards," Sly said, nervous now that he had interrupted the chief of Interpol a second time, "it's that they walk _behind_ the person they're guarding so they can see him at all times."

"So? He probably turned to say something and then―"

"His body is slumped against the wall," Sly said, becoming feverish now. "If this guard were a disgruntled worker, why would he bring Larry to the wall before shooting him?"

"I don't know, to discuss wages or something."

"But then why would the _other_ guard let things get that far?" Sly asked. "Unless they were both disgruntled workers, which makes no sense at all―"

"Why not?" Barkley asked, not sorry at all that he had interrupted.

"Because one of them was shot in the _back_ of the head."

"So? The other guy was probably too afraid to kill himself, so he asked his partner to do it for him."

"Really? This was a trained bodyguard, not above killing anybody else."

"Well, since you seem so convinced to believe this wasn't a dispute over money, what do _you_ think happened?" Barkley asked. He was now quite furious with Sly, though he was doing very well to control it.

"I think these guys were assassinated," Sly said. "They shot the two guards first. They snuck up behind the first guard," Sly pointed to Bruce, "and then got the second guard when he turned. After that, Larry was probably easy pickings."

"Sly, that doesn't make sense either," Carmelita said. "The second guard was facing in the same direction as the first." Sly stopped, looking at the guards again. Carmelita was right. Though one was on his stomach and the other was on his back, it appeared as though they had been facing the same direction when they were shot.

"Well, there goes your theory," Barkley said. "This still looks like worker's dispute to me, and in any case, it's a hell of a lot easier than bringing these hooligans to trial. Let's go back to the station and wrap this up."

Sly was annoyed. He was still convinced this was an outside job, but in truth there was not enough evidence to prove otherwise. In fact, when he pulled into Interpol's parking lot, he suddenly realized a far more plausible explanation.

One guard shot the other in the back of the head, easy. Then Larry was pushed against the wall, presumably so the other guard could discuss things with him. Clearly the conversation hadn't gone well, because Larry had been shot in the head. Then…for some reason, the second guard shot himself, too. They would have to wait for ballistics to confiscate the weapons to determine how many shots had been fired, but Sly was sure his theory would be proven wrong.

* * *

When Bentley, Penelope, and Murray awoke the next day, they heard about the shooting of Loose-Tongued Larry on the news. Bentley was intrigued, not only because he knew Larry as one of the shadiest criminals around, but because Sly and Carmelita were investigating the case. He half-hoped that Sly would remember the name, as they had dealt with Larry before, but knew that it was doubtful. Sly had never met Larry in person, either, so Bentley knew he wouldn't recognize the face.

In any case, Bentley was glad that they were leaving Paris tomorrow. Though the police seemed to be saying that one of Larry's bodyguards had killed Larry, Bentley couldn't help shake the feeling that the killer was still at large, and he did not want to be a target.

Bentley checked on Penelope that day as she was adding additional room in the back of the plane for storage.

"How soon do you think we can leave?" Bentley asked.

"Tomorrow, like I said before," said Penelope, focusing on the plane and not looking at Bentley. "Why?"

"Well, after Larry's death I don't want to stay in Paris longer than necessary."

"All right," Penelope said, and Bentley was relieved she didn't say anything about his paranoia. Murray had tried to tell Bentley not to worry, as Murray had been wholeheartedly convinced that what the police had said was accurate. After Sly had suggested one of the guards had killed Larry, Murray had latched on to the explanation immediately.

"Do you need any help?" Bentley asked.

"I'm all right," Penelope said. "You should spend the day with Murray. You haven't seen him in two years."

"All right," Bentley said, hoping Murray would stop talking about the Larry case. "Love you, dear."

"Love you, too," Penelope said. Bentley went to find Murray eating in the makeshift kitchen.

"Still worried about thief killers?" Murray said, chuckling. Bentley groaned.

"Can we not talk about that?" Bentley asked. "I want to know what you've been up to for two years."

"Oh," Murray said. "All right. Well…um…I've pretty much already told you when we talked. I've been racing the getaway van."

"Right," Bentley said. He wasn't sure why it was hard to talk to Murray. He figured that his absence for two years had something to do with it.

"How about you?" Murray asked.

"Well…first, Penelope and I stayed at Kaine Island so we could fix the vault. You wouldn't believe what we did to it." And Bentley started explaining all of the struggles of reforming the structure of the vault, securing it from outside intruders, and how Bentley had been working on a time travelling machine over all that time. Bentley was relieved that it was now as easy to talk to Murray as ever, his momentary worry had quite evaporated.

"Wow…" Murray said as Bentley explained how they had locked the vault for the last time. "I gotta hand it to you, Bentley, you're _really_ smart."

"Thanks pal," Bentley said.

"So…what happened to the time machine?" Murray asked.

"Well…I worked on it for two years, but I couldn't finish it. That's why I'm trying this instead." Murray nodded in understanding.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see if this works," Murray said. "Too bad, it would've been cool to see into the future."

"Yeah," Bentley said with a sigh. "It would have."


	3. All the Comforts of Home

Bentley, Penelope, and Murray strapped themselves into the biplane early the next morning, hoping to take off without being seen. It was still pitch-black outside when they left. They had packed plenty of food, bottled water, and storages boxes in the plane, and now Penelope was running a final diagnostics check before the team took off.

Murray rubbed his eyes groggily. He was used to sleeping far later, and he had not been able to fall asleep early the night before, as Bentley had advised him. Bentley and Penelope, on the other hand, were wide awake, checking the plane to make sure they would have as smooth a flight as possible.

Murray started yawning loudly. Bentley tried to ignore it, but with each successive yawn it became harder and harder for him to keep his patience. Finally, he turned around and snapped at him.

"Murray, if you're so tired, you can sleep during the flight, but could you _please_ stop yawning?"

"Sorry…" Murray mumbled, looking pitiful. Bentley sighed.

"It's all right, Murray." He turned back to the front.

"Looks like everything's a go," Penelope said. "Let's take us up." Penelope pulled back on the throttle, and the engines hummed loudly as the biplane moved towards the open sliding doors. Penelope had to angle the plane just right to move through these doors, as it was a very tight fit and she did not want to risk damage to the wings if they scraped against the doors. The three braced themselves as they approached the opening…

There was a sickening scraping sound as the right wing seared across the doorframe, but the biplane took off without a problem. Bentley and Penelope breathed sighs of relief, while Murray whooped in triumph, the wind waking him up.

"Any sign of damage, Bentley?" Penelope said through an earpiece, as the wind was so buffeting it was impossible to speak to each other normally.

"No, looks like it just scratched the paint. I'll keep an eye on it though."

Penelope smiled. It felt invigorating to be flying again. She hadn't flown since returning to Paris after resealing the vault, and she noticed that she was suddenly calmer than she'd been in months. Tension had been amassing in her for a while, as was evident when she had talked Bentley out of the time travelling machine. Now that she was in the air, the tension seemed to have been left on the ground, and she was cheery as usual.

Bentley noticed the change in her and smiled. He was relieved to see his girlfriend unequivocally happy again.

Murray felt energized and excited for the first time in a long time. This was more thrilling than racing a confined van. This was heaven.

* * *

Sly was not having nearly as much fun. He was back in work, now fully devoted to the Loose-Tongued Larry case. The results from the initial ballistics testing would be ready this afternoon, and then he would know what type of guns was used and, more importantly, how many bullets each fired. There had only been three shots, but which guns shot what made all the difference in the world.

Until then, he was back at the crime scene, conferring with forensics specialists and the local law enforcement, trying to straighten what was fact and what was speculation. It was tedious work, made even more so by his isolation from Carmelita, who was looking over the three corpses back at headquarters.

At this moment in time, all Sly was doing was keeping everyone on the same page, which was difficult to do, as so many were firing questions at him all at once. More than once, he had had to correct himself, clarify what he had meant by a certain answer. Many times he gave the right answer for a different question, which caused great confusion and sour moods. Finally, after explaining where each victim was shot for the fifth time, he stood on the hood of his car and called for everyone's attention.

"Okay!" he shouted, waving his arms needlessly, as every officer and specialist was now gawking at him. He stepped down from the hood but stayed in front of them. "I'm going to explain exactly what happened in our initial search yesterday. I need you all to listen and not ask questions until I'm done talking."

"All we know, _all_ we know, is that Loose-Tongued Larry and two of his bodyguards were shot dead. Larry was shot in the head near that wall, one guard was shot in the head in the middle of the alleyway, and the other guard was shot in the back of the head not too far from there. That is the _only_ information of which we are certain.

"There were other things at the crime scene yesterday from which we can make reasonable deductions. Two pistols were found on the ground close to two of the guards, and we believe that they were the weapons used to shoot these three men. Who shot who is still unknown, but we are reasonably sure that those guns were the murder weapons. We will have results from our ballistics team ready this afternoon, and you will all be informed once we are informed.

"Now, if you have _any_ questions, feel free to ask them now in an orderly manner, and I will answer to the best of my ability. Thank you." But Sly had so thoroughly explained himself that there were no questions, just nervous mutterings about what might have occurred. Satisfied, Sly decided to break for an early lunch and then check on the ballistics testing, which intrigued him far more than this banter.

Sly made the trip to the Ballistics Department of Interpol just after lunch. The two experts were named Wally and Joe. Wally was an overexcited iguana; Joe was a reserved chimpanzee. The two of them balanced each other out and made for a nice pairing.

"What have we got here?" Sly asked. Wally tutted impatiently, but Joe turned to speak to Sly.

"Well, our diagnostics of the shells have not yet been completed," Joe said with a deliberate voice. Wally sighed impatiently. "However, more immediate information about the number of bullets fired from each shell is readily available."

"Great. What happened?" Sly asked, stomach fluttering. This was the information he had been waiting for all day.

"Well, Gun A, the one found by the guard shot in the back of the head, was fired twice. Gun B, the one found by the other guard, was fired once. That is assuming both guns were fully loaded before the shooting began."

"A fair assumption," Wally spat, "as bodyguards would generally want their guns fully loaded, wouldn't they?" Joe ignored him, but Sly scowled at the back of Wally's head.

"Strange," Sly said, "why would both of the guns be fired?" The leading theory in the case was that one guard had done all the shooting, so unless he somehow switched guns to kill himself, the theory did not match the evidence. Unless…

"Joe, is there any sign that Gun A stalled?"

"We checked the remaining bullets in the chamber. Both guns were in working order." Now Sly was completely baffled, but secretly he was also feeling just a bit thrilled. It turns out Barkley's theory of one shooter was not going to pan out.

"Thanks guys," Sly said, "and keep up the good work." Wally muttered darkly, but Sly did not hear him as he left the ballistics lab.

The first thing he did was report the new information to Chief Barkley, and his initial reaction was the same as Sly's.

"Why would both of the guards be shooting?" Barkley asked. "That completely goes against our initial theory, unless…"

"Neither gun stalled," Sly said plainly, and Barkley looked slightly abashed.

"Well then, what else could have happened?"

"I'm telling you," Sly said, "I think it was an outside job." Barkley ran a paw through his hair in frustration.

"Cooper, these guards were killed by their own weapons, as you've just assured me! How could a hit man get close enough to swipe the guns out of their paws?"

 _Of course_ , Sly thought, _that should have been obvious_. Sly was still thinking furiously, not quailing under the death glare Chief Barkley was giving him.

"Then it was an inside job," Sly said. "One of the guards was working for somebody else. He killed the first guy and then a hit man walks in, takes that guy's gun, and shoots Larry. Then…" Sly racked his brain, trying to remember the details of the guns, "The same guy shoots the other gun."

"Why?" Barkley asked. "If one of the guards was working for a hit man, why would the hit man just shoot him?"

"Maybe the hit man couldn't pay up," Sly suggested. Barkley shook his head.

"No, there's just too much speculation. I'm sorry, Sly, but unless you can prove to me those three men were not alone at the crime scene, then your theory holds no weight. You're dismissed." Sly walked out, unable to hide his utter frustration. Chief Barkley pulled out a particularly fat cigar and lit it, fuming as much as the smoke now rising stagnantly over his desk.

* * *

After hours of flying over the open sea, the three thieves had to admit that the initial euphoria had died off. They had plenty of food and drink, for sure, but the task of flying was now very monotonous, especially with nothing but the blue ocean below. They had long since raised the roof on the biplane to keep the wind from blowing in their faces, but now the air inside the plane was stagnant.

Bentley and Penelope took turns keeping the plane on course, which took very little effort when compared to the takeoff. Murray, however, was the most bored. He had nothing to do, so he tried to sleep on the plane, but the noise of the engines was keeping him awake. Murray hated to admit it, but he was a very light sleeper. He cursed himself for neglecting to bring his earplugs.

Bentley and Penelope were feeling the strain, too, which was evident when Murray had asked bitterly, "Are we there yet?" They had given him such reproachful looks in return that Murray had said nothing to them again for hours.

So, when they saw signs of a thunderstorm ahead, they weren't sure whether to feel nervous about the danger or excited that the monotony of the flight was passing.

"Should we try to circumnavigate it?" Bentley asked. Murray scoffed; he hated it when Bentley spoke with such a high vocabulary.

"Doesn't look like we can," said Penelope, checking the dashboard, "the radar shows this thing is _massive_ , and we're flying right into the middle of it. There's not enough time to avoid it without changing direction completely, and we can't afford to spare that kind of fuel."

"But if we fly directly into it," Bentley said, "are we going to make it out?"

"Well, we should be okay…The plane can withstand lightning…We just have to make sure we're not blown off course. As I said, we can't waste the fuel trying to correct ourselves."

"Can't we just fly over the storm?" Murray asked.

"Sorry, Murray," Penelope said, "but the storm clouds are tall, and the biplane can't fly well at extreme altitudes."

"How about visibility?" Bentley asked, while Murray shook his head.

"As long as we have our compass and altimeter, we'll be all set. I don't expect to run into any other flying objects, not in the middle of a storm."

"Then full speed ahead," Bentley said. They kept the biplane on course.

When they entered the cell of storms, the wind started blowing their biplane to the right. Penelope had to steer hard to keep the plane on a straight course. Bentley helped her as best he could, but he suddenly felt apprehension building within him.

 _It's okay_ , he thought to himself, _it's just lightning, Bentley, just lightning. Even if it hits the plane, it's not going to hurt us. It's not going to hurt us. Come on, you should know better. Lightning is merely the electrical discharge formed because of two air masses of vastly different temperatures. It's not going to harm us in the plane; we're protected by a metallic shell._

But as bolts of lightning started striking the plane, Bentley began to whimper nervously. His whimpering became a scream of fright when a particularly loud thunderclap boomed. Murray immediately scooted forward in his seat to comfort his friend.

"Bentley, it's okay. We got hit a bunch and we're not hurt. We're still flying."

"Murray's right, Bentley. We're about halfway through the storm system now, and radar shows clear skies for the rest of the flight. It's going to be okay." The two of them continued to comfort Bentley until they were safely out of the storm. That was when Bentley finally stopped shaking and calmed down.

"Thanks guys," he said feebly, "I'm sorry. It was stupid to be scared."

"No it wasn't," Penelope said, "it's just astraphobia. Nothing to be ashamed of." Murray sighed again, though his friends didn't hear him. He hated to admit it, but he would feel a lot smarter if Sly was back. At least he'd be with a friend whose speech he could understand.

* * *

Sly finally met up with Carmelita at the end of the day, and they gazed at each other with longing as they walked to their civilian cars. Contrary to what Barkley had said last night, this case wasn't one that they could just "wrap up." They looked forward to lying in Sly's bed, enjoying each other's company, and talking for hours about anything but Loose-Tongued Larry.

Sly and Carmelita took turns staying in each other's apartments every few nights, so both would be able to enjoy the comforts of their own homes. While Carmelita's apartment had some Latin flair, Sly's was much more European. Each felt more comfortable in their own dwellings, and keeping separate lodgings made the other officers at Interpol less suspicious.

Sly looked forward to seeing his mahogany furniture, traditional queen-sized bed with an ornate headboard, and the blue walls that had convinced him to buy the place two years ago. As much as he loved spending time at Carmelita's apartment, he enjoyed all the comforts of home.

Once they had parked Carmelita's car at her place, she rode with Sly towards his apartment on the other side of town.

"How can you stand living in so much blue?" Carmelita asked. "Blue walls, blue curtains, even blue tiles in the bathroom! It's depressing."

"No, it's soothing," Sly said, smiling. He loved having this playful argument. "Much more relaxing than all that red and orange at your place."

"My apartment gives me energy," Carmelita said. "Yours just saps all of it away."

"No, it replenishes me," Sly said with a smile. "I get more energy because my apartment _gives_ it."

"Whatever you say," Carmelita said, and she rubbed Sly's arm affectionately.

"The chief isn't too happy with you," she said. Sly grimaced at her briefly before turning back to the road.

"I thought we weren't discussing the case tonight."

"Oh, no, not the case. Just he's never been this angry with you since―"

"Since when?" Sly asked, and Carmelita swore under her breath, fearing she had said too much.

"Since…well, never. He's never been this mad at you." Carmelita sighed with relief.

"I wonder what's wrong with him. The minute I don't agree, he just lashes out at me."

"Well, that's not unusual," Carmelita said. "He's like that with everyone. Headstrong. But I always thought you were one of his favorites."

"Really? Me? After my background?" For a moment, Carmelita felt a thrill of horror, fearing that Sly had remembered everything. She then remembered that the cover story had involved him being a recovered criminal.

"Yeah, he always said you were the perfect example of someone turning over a new leaf." This was true, Carmelita said to herself. Chief Barkley, though quick to criticize, was equally quick to praise.

"Why's this time different?" Sly asked. Carmelita shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know…" Carmelita said. They pulled up to the apartment and spoke of it no further.

* * *

Chief Barkley was still upset when he clocked out for the day, the memory of first seeing the crime scene still etched in his mind.

_He had been the first to arrive at the scene after a local officer had reported it. Given the federal nature of Larry's crimes, Interpol had jurisdiction, and it was protocol for the chief to be the first on the scene of a murder of such a criminal. Most of the evidence was plain in front of him. The three dead men, all with bullet wounds in the head, and two pistols lying close beside._

_But one piece of evidence had baffled him completely, and it had been the bloody symbol of a raccoon's head._

_He had become infuriated, cursing the Cooper Gang, wondering how psychotic they would have to be to kill a criminal in cold blood like that._

_Then his anger had shifted immediately to gripping terror when he realized that the leader of the gang was working for Interpol._

_The chief had taken the symbol, placed it in a plastic bag, and pocketed it, telling the other officer that the evidence would be well cared for, but that Interpol had to confiscate it because it would be taking over the investigation of the case. The officer had agreed, thankfully, and Chief Barkley had kept the calling card on his person ever since._

He didn't know how the Cooper Gang factored into this mess, but as the old leader was in such close proximity to the crime, Chief Barkley had lost all trust in him. Of course, he couldn't let Sly catch wind of his suspicions, which was why he had confiscated that calling card.

If Sly was guilty of the crime, and he had been faking amnesia all this time, Interpol would soon find out, regardless of any evidence Chief Barkley may have illegally swapped. If Sly was innocent, there was no need leaving signs of his own gang lying around in case they triggered his memory and he decided to leave Interpol forever. Guilty or not, Sly was one of the best cops on the team and Chief Barkley did not want to lose him until he was sure what happened.

But of course now he mistrusted Sly, and if he hadn't wanted so desperately Carmelita's expertise for this case he would have dismissed both of them from it. He was determined not to heed any of Sly's theories, in case Sly was trying to dupe him. And he was so frustrated about the situation he was taking his anger out on Sly.

Chief Barkley hoped that Sly did not start to suspect anything. The consequences could be dire if he did.

* * *

Sly and Carmelita entered the complex and walked down the hall to Sly's apartment on the ground floor. When Sly turned the key in the lock and opened the door, he was shocked at what he found.

The mahogany furniture was overturned, the blue curtains of the windows were tattered, and one window was ajar, letting in a cold draft. Carmelita shut the window without thinking about what she was doing, while Sly checked to see if any of his valuables had been taken.

They hadn't been, but the vandalism would still cost money to repair. Sly went to check on the bedroom while Carmelita went to the kitchen for a brandy. The bedroom was in similar disrepair to the rest of the apartment, though nothing had apparently been taken. However, Sly saw that something had been added to this room: a photo on his bed. He picked up and, with a cry, dropped it and called Carmelita in to have a look. She picked it up, glanced at it, and dropped it, her hand shaky.

The picture was of Loose-Tongued Larry, apparently taken shortly after he had been shot, and over the picture had been scrawled bloodstained words to chill both officers to the bone.

_YOU'RE NEXT_


	4. Ticking Away the Hours

They finally landed at Kaine Island after eighteen straight hours of flying. Once they exited the biplane, the steamy tropical air and the bright sunlight put them in a stupor. Therefore, the first thing they decided to do was take a nap in the sand.

Bentley and Penelope knew the island was safe; it had been deserted ever since the vault had collapsed. Without the industrialization of Dr. M's fort polluting the air and arresting the scenery, the island was beautiful. Clear blue skies greeted them as they went down to the coast, the waves splashing onto the shore, the sunlight's reflection shimmering in the deep blue water. The three thieves took refuge in the shade of a large palm tree, and Murray lifted Bentley out of his wheelchair and laid him down on the sand. A cool breeze passed through them from the ocean, lulling them into a stupor. All the weariness of the flight, the worries about their amnesic friend, melted away as, one by one, they drifted off to sleep.

When they awoke to see the brilliant orange sunset greeting them across the water, they realized just how tired they had been. Bentley, the first to awake, groaned when he realized how much time they had spent sleeping. The shade of the tree had shifted over the course of the day, and he felt very hot from the sunlight he had basked in for hours. He was beginning to cool off now, but he his mouth was dry with thirst and he could steal no immediate relief from the long shadows the tree was now making feet away from him. He was unable to move due to the paralysis in his legs.

Penelope awoke next, stifling in the heat, and she dragged Bentley into the shade of the palm tree. Bentley winced as he was dragged across the sand, but was relieved when he was under the tree's shadows.

"Thank you, Penelope," he said hoarsely.

"No problem," Penelope said, kneeling down and kissing him on the forehead. "You're burning up."

"I'll be fine once my blood cools," Bentley said, "but right now I'm awfully thirsty."

"Oh, of course, me too," Penelope said, rising. "I'll get the water." Penelope went to the biplane, unpacked the box with the cooler, and lugged it back to where Bentley rested.

"Who―packed―this―thing?" Penelope grunted as she dragged the cooler into the shade. Bentley chuckled.

"Murray, obviously, or it wouldn't be so heavy," he said, laughing.

"Well, it wasn't that heavy. I'm just not strong to begin with," Penelope said.

"Be thankful Murray's not as strong as he used to be, then," Bentley said. Penelope smiled sadly, opened the cooler, and passed Bentley a bottle of water. He opened it, took a sip, and relished the ice cold liquid soothing his dry throat.

"That's so much better," Bentley said.

"I know," Penelope agreed, lowering her own bottle after gulping down some water. "Whatever did happen to Murray?" she asked with concern.

"The racing wore him out, so he couldn't lift weights as much as he used to," Bentley said. "But I think it's something else."

"Sly?" Penelope asked.

"Sly," Bentley said. "It's affected all of us." An uncomfortable silence fell, during which both of them took drinks of water. They could still hear Murray snoring in the light of the sunset.

"Well…hopefully it won't last too much longer," Penelope said. "I really want him back."

Somehow―and he couldn't place why―Bentley felt a twinge of jealousy when she said this. But that was foolish; Sly had been gone for two years, and Penelope had never left her side. But she could have been biding her time, said a nasty voice in his head, staying with you so she can go back to him the moment he remembers her. He ignored it, though, as he thought of the prospect of bringing his best friend home.

"I want him back, too," he said.

* * *

Sly and Carmelita had called Interpol immediately after finding the photograph for two reasons. It could be used as evidence in the Loose-Tongued Larry case, and, more urgently, it was a serious threat. They sat in the living room couch, no longer caring if they were seen together, holding each other for comfort.

Sly was aware that his hit man theory was now looking very solid, but he was not feeling vindictive about it as he thought he would. Instead, his insides were squirming and his mind was racing with a feeling he rarely, if ever, experienced: fear. If Carmelita was not holding him, he was sure he would have broken down and started to weep with terror.

It wasn't as if the death threat by itself was frightening; at least one officer received a hateful letter every day. These were mostly put together by punks who were hoping to rile the police, but they were thrown away unceremoniously.

This, however, this was different. How many people had access to Larry's corpse? Only the police officer who reported the crime, the officers at Interpol, and whoever killed him. It had taken a very talented killer to corner Larry in that alleyway, and if that same killer was now writing a threat to Sly in what looked horribly like blood…the thought shook him to his core.

A wave of gratitude swept through him when Carmelita had decided to stay with him. Obviously she cared for him very deeply, or she wouldn't risk her own life by staying with him. Sly was not yet able to express his most sincere gratitude; the words caught in his throat whenever he tried to say them and he nearly burst into tears every time. Instead, he held her more tightly than he ever had, trembling, and she stroked his back and kissed him and relaxed him as much as she could. He could tell she wanted to cry, too, but she bit back the tears for his sake. He wished she wouldn't, but said nothing. The sight of her crying might cause him to do the same.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, he heard sirens approaching closer. Shortly after, he saw the blue lights flashing through the curtains, heard the officers leave their car, and then finally heard them knock on his door. Sly rose from the couch, went to the door, and peered through the peephole. He was shocked to see Chief Barkley amidst the group of officers, smoking a cigar even though smoke was banned from the building. He quickly unchained and opened the door with trembling fingers, inviting the officers in. Along with Chief Barkley were two others Sly knew from the office. One, Constable Pete Delehog, was a pig; the other, Inspector Susan Dewitt, was a lynx. They entered along with Chief Barkley and began to search the apartment, greeting Carmelita with curiosity. Barkley, on the other hand, sat down in a chair. He took out a notepad and pen and sat back. Sly sat down next to Carmelita, and they could smell the acrid scent of Barkley's cigar.

"Well," Chief Barkley said, "I didn't expect you here, Carmelita."

"I'll explain later, Chief," Carmelita said. "My presence here is in no way unusual."

"Really?" Barkley asked with the distinct air that he did not believe a word of what she had just said, "So why does it come as such a surprise to me and the other officers?"

"If you must know," Carmelita said, frustration evident in her voice but contained, "Sly and I have been seeing each other for a while, but I'm sure that's not the reason you're here to talk to us."

Chief Barkley glared at Carmelita, but inquired nothing further from her. He turned to Sly instead.

"Inspector Cooper," he said with an air of forced politeness, "you called saying that you received a death threat of some kind and that your apartment had been vandalized?"

"Yes," Sly said, still too nervous to feel chided at Barkley's attitude, "Constable Delehog and Inspector Dewitt will undoubtedly have seen the picture containing the threat by now, and as for the vandalism, well, it should be obvious."

"Here, sir," Delehog said, bringing Chief Barkley the picture of Larry, which was now inside a plastic bag. Chief Barkley took the bag, examined the picture, and returned it to Delehog, who pocketed it.

"Thank you, Constable," Barkley said, his tone considerably warmer. He turned back to Sly.

"Forgive my brashness earlier," he said, "but your phone call did not convey the details of the threat, and therefore the urgency of the matter was not conveyed. It appears that your previous theories about Loose-Tongued Larry's death were not so farfetched after all. I will be looking into them now far more earnestly." Sly nodded, now deflated, as his story had been told.

"Thank you, Chief," he said softly. Carmelita patted his arm. Chief Barkley twitched involuntarily.

"Now, I take it you will not want to stay here tonight," Chief Barkley said, and Sly nodded again. "In that case, we can escort you elsewhere to spend the night. A hotel, an inn―"

"How about my place?" Carmelita asked. "Some of Sly's belongings are already there, and I can keep an eye on him."

Chief Barkley twitched again, and he rose from the chair and walked over to Carmelita. The acrid smoke was even more pungent at this proximity.

"If word gets out," he said, "you will be in danger, too."

"I understand that," Carmelita said.

"I don't want my finest officer to be caught in a firestorm."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," she said.

"Very well," Barkley said gruffly, looking disgruntled. "We'll escort you to your apartment. Constable! Inspector! Are you finished searching the apartment?"

"Yes, Chief," Dewitt said as she and Delehog reappeared in the living room.

"We'll be escorting these two to Carmelita's apartment," Barkley said. The other officers nodded.

"Are you two ready to leave?" Barkley asked. Sly and Carmelita nodded. They had already gathered some of Sly's belongings, ready to leave in a hurry.

"Then let's waste no more time," Chief Barkley said, and the five officers left the apartment without another word.

* * *

By the time Murray had woken up, night had fallen on the island. Bentley and Penelope brought him water and also food, which the three of them ate while they reviewed the plans for the vault.

"The vault's entrance is on top of that mountain," Bentley said, pointing to the mountain in the distance, "You, Penelope, will bring up the cane, and you, Murray, will take the spare boxes. We'll go in, I'll lead us to the Clockwerk parts, Murray will box up as many as he can carry, and we'll exit the vault. We can fly back home tomorrow morning after a good night's rest. Sound good?" Penelope and Murray nodded, trying to remember if any of Bentley's plans had ever been so straightforward.

"Okay, then, let's go," Bentley said, leading the way.

Hiking up the mountain was not tedious in the slightest, as Bentley and Penelope had constructed a path to the summit that was wheelchair accessible. The climb was tedious, but not painfully difficult. Nevertheless, they were winded when they reached the summit, and they stopped to catch their breath.

Then, Penelope placed the cane into the door of the vault. The door spun, aligned, and then opened slowly, revealing a metallic room with computer monitors. Murray chuckled; he had never seen the inside of the renovated vault, but recognized Bentley's architectural style immediately. Bentley rolled in and logged into the main server using a series of hand scanning, eye scanning, and passwords. The Cooper Vault Database opened, allowing Bentley to search for the room in which the Clockwerk parts were stored.

The database found the room within a minute, and Bentley opened his Binocucom, on which he had saved a map of the vault. He programmed the shortest route through the labyrinth of hallways and rooms he and Penelope had created, and then led the way down the tunnels. Murray felt hopelessly lost as they travelled deeper and deeper down the vault, which he soon realized was about as large as the mountain in which it was contained.

They passed metallic hallways and rooms which contained untold wealth, until they finally reached what must have been the bottom of the mountain. Now very tired, the others waited while Bentley opened the door marked "Clockwerk Parts" with another set of scans and passwords. Finally, the door opened and they saw the Clockwerk parts hanging on the walls of the room.

Murray packed as much as he could carry, which turned out to be nearly everything but the wings, which were much too large for him to carry now. Once that was done, they left the room and climbed back up to the entrance of the vault, then stepped outside. At this point, Murray was panting heavily.

"Do we really have to walk all the way down again?" he asked, putting the boxes down and clutching his chest.

"No," Bentley said, "there's an elevator that will take us down the mountain. I built it to take us down, but not up, just in case somebody was stranded on the island and was tempted to explore. They'd have to climb the mountain to see what was on the summit, something most stranded people wouldn't be willing to spend their energy doing. It's just another security measure." Murray nodded with relief and stepped into the elevator with Bentley and Penelope.

They reached the biplane a few minutes later, and Murray loaded the plane and then slumped on the ground, exhausted.

"I really need to start working out again," he said.

"You did great, Murray," Penelope said, and Murray smiled in thanks.

"All right, team," Bentley said, "we'll leave first thing in the morning. I want to get back to Paris as soon as possible. Is that all right?"

"Yes," Penelope and Murray said. Bentley smiled; they were just as eager to bring their friend back as he was.

* * *

Sly and Carmelita arrived with Chief Barkley and the other officers at Carmelita's apartment. Chief Barkley insisted that Inspector Dewitt see Sly and Carmelita to the apartment, and the two of them made no objections. She brought them up to the fourth floor and to the door marked 406, which Sly recognized very well. He was relieved when he and Carmelita entered the flat and Inspector Dewitt left. They locked the door and the windows and then sat at the couch, both too shaken to fall asleep. They held each other and said nothing for a long while.

Meanwhile, Chief Barkley waited in the car with Delehog, thinking seriously. If the Cooper Gang was really involved in that murder, why would they vandalize Sly's apartment and start to threaten him? Then he scoffed, as if he should have known the answer immediately. The threat was staged to throw Chief Barkley off guard.

Resigned to the bitterness he had felt since seeing the calling card, Barkley was driven back home for some much-needed sleep. Delehog and Dewitt, who were on night duty, returned to their patrol.

Sly and Carmelita watched the night's still progress through the windows, the curtains drawn. All they could see was the adjacent apartment building, all they could hear in the flat was the sound of the old clock Carmelita had hung in her kitchen, ticking away the hours. The sound was unnerving, but neither of them rose to dismantle the clock.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was really only thirty minutes, Carmelita rose from the couch. Sly reached out for her, slightly hurt.

"Relax," she said softly, kissing him tenderly. "I'm just going down the hall to use the bathroom. I'll be right back." Sly nodded, staying on the couch curled up. He heard the bathroom door shut.

Sly sat for only a minute more, but then felt a thrill of energy that compelled him to stand and walk around the apartment. He walked into the bedroom and smiled, thinking of all the times he had slept in it. He entered the kitchen and looked at the old wooden clock, which Carmelita had inherited from her grandmother Rosalina, who had lived in Puerto Rico. Finally, he returned to the living room and walked over to the windows to look out of the windows.

He saw something gleam in the adjacent window, and an inexplicable surge of adrenaline shot through his veins, terrifying him. Without thinking, he dove to the ground. Suddenly, blasts like cannons rocketed through the windows. Smashing glass, battering into the drywalls, he heard a woman screaming, broken glass rained down on him, clenching his face, heart pounding, crawling along the carpet to get away from the window. On and on the bullets fired, until suddenly they stopped.

Sly raised his head slowly, looking at the damage. The opposite wall, where photographs had hung, was demolished so that he could see the rafters within. The photographs had fallen onto the carpet, ruined, the frames smashed and the pictures decimated. He then heard what sounded like whimpering, and another thrill of horror coursed through him.

Sly rose to run to the bathroom, but then he heard a fresh round of bullets pepper the apartment and he fell to the ground again, holding his ringing ears. As the bullets continued to fire, his screams went unheard and tears streamed down his face. They stopped again, and this time Sly stayed on the floor, immobile for what felt like an hour.

He crawled away from sight of the window and scrambled crouching to the bathroom door. He reached for the knob and turned it, only to find that it was locked. He let out a shout of nervous laughter and banged on the door, frightened.

"Carmelita!" he shouted. "Are you okay?" He heard a sharp intake of breath, some scuffling across the tile, and he heard the lock of the bathroom door click. Sly opened the door, and Carmelita collapsed on top of him, sobbing uncontrollably. Sly kissed her face furiously, grateful that she was not injured.

"You're okay, you're okay, thank God, you're okay," he said as he kissed her. She was still sobbing, but she finally started kissing Sly as well.

"Who could have done this to us?" Sly said, as the adrenaline finally died down and his mind started racing with thoughts. Carmelita shook her head, looking extremely grim, and Sly knew precisely why.

The fact was, only three other people knew where Sly was staying tonight, and they all worked for Interpol. Sly and Carmelita shuddered collectively, more terrified, if that were possible, than they were before the shooting.


	5. A Full-Fledged Escape

"What do we do now?" Carmelita posed the question to Sly, and he was not sure at all how to answer it. It was still shocking to believe that people at Interpol― _Interpol_ ―wanted him killed. He had been a particularly ruthless thief, yes, one who had been notoriously difficult to capture, but that past was behind him. Two years had gone by, and he couldn't remember any of his old heists. All he knew was his devoted service to Interpol, the elite police force that apparently now wanted him dead.

This was disturbing in itself. Sly knew from Carmelita that he was twenty-three years old. How come he couldn't remember the first twenty-one years of his life? But that was a matter for another time. Right now he needed to figure out how to stay alive.

"I take it we can't call the police." Sly said, but just then he and Carmelita heard sirens.

"Apparently," Carmelita whispered, "somebody else did." Recklessly, Sly peered out of the shattered window at the police cars down below. They were local responders, Sly realized with a sigh of relief.

"It's the Prefecture," he said as he crawled to Carmelita's side. "Not Interpol."

"I don't care if it's the Mounties. I still don't trust them." Sly had to agree. Once they identified Carmelita's apartment complex, he was sure Interpol would report, and right now they did not want to be seen alive by anyone from Interpol.

"We need to get out of here," Sly said. "Now. Before the police see us."

"How are we going to do that? They're probably marching up the stairwell as we speak!" Sly's brain cranked furiously for a solution, and suddenly, he found an idea. Though not a full-fledged escape, the move would hopefully buy them some time.

Without saying a word, Sly grabbed Carmelita's hand and led her out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him. No one else was in the hallway; presumably they were all too scared to leave their beds. The stairwell and elevator shaft was to the right, so Sly dragged Carmelita to the left and around the corner. They dashed down the hall to the emergency stairwell at the end.

"Yes!" Sly said, and he dragged Carmelita towards it.

"Sly, wait, you can't go down there!"

"Why not?" he asked, stopping short.

"You'll set off the fire alarm," she said, and Sly swore under his breath. He could already hear the police officers marching down the hall. Apparently, they had seen the smashed window from the outside and knew what floor to search. Sly moved back down the hall, and Carmelita clutched his arm and stopped him.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"I need to see what they're doing," Sly said. He wrenched his arm free and peered ever so carefully around the corner. He saw the police officers speaking with the tenant of room 404, who looked extremely distraught, and he ducked out of sight before one turned and saw him. There were no less than six officers in the group.

"They're going to find your apartment before coming down this hall," Sly whispered. "They'll have to search it, you know, cordon it off and all that crap. That gives us just enough time to get down the main stairs and slip out unseen."

"Sly, are you sure?" Carmelita asked. Sly heard the officers knocking on another door. He peeked again and saw them at 406. They were waiting for someone to answer the door. Sly ducked back and whispered to Carmelita.

"As soon as you hear our door shut, we'll walk casually to the main stairs."

"Walk? _Are you insane_?" she whispered.

"Running is too loud! They'll hear us!" Suddenly, they heard the door open and shut. Sly grabbed Carmelita and lead her down the hall. Carmelita was still very unsure if this would work. Sly was about to lead them down the last corner to the staircase, but Carmelita stopped him.

"We have to check," she said. Carmelita peered carefully around the potted plant positioned at the corner. There was an officer standing watch near the elevator. Carmelita shook her head, telling Sly it was no good.

"Now what?" Sly whispered very softly. Carmelita looked around desperately, and her eyes alighted on room 404.

"Room 404, it's our only chance. They won't go in there now, they've already searched it!" Sly was already walking to the room. He tried opening the door. It was locked. Then, very softly, Sly knocked on the door. The tenant of the apartment was a rabbit with huge ears, so he heard the knocking and peeked through the peephole. Sly had his finger to his lips, the obvious sign to be quiet. The rabbit, who they knew to be called Leroy, was so worried at the anxiety in Sly's face that he opened the door very quietly and beckoned Sly and Carmelita inside. They hurried in, and as soon as the door shut, they thanked Leroy immensely.

"No problem," he whispered, "but, uh…wasn't that your apartment they hit?"

"How did you know?" Carmelita asked.

"I looked outside long after the shooting stopped," Leroy explained, "and I saw your shattered windows right next door. So I called the police. I was the first one who reported it, according to the dispatcher, so I guess everyone else was too scared."

"Thank you, Leroy," Sly said, "but our situation with the police is…" Carmelita shushed Sly hurriedly.

"We're very grateful, Leroy. Sly just has this thing with the Prefecture. He's had a tough time dealing with them on a number of cases." The lie smoothed over the awkward interruption, but Sly was unsure why they could not confide in Leroy. Sly had gotten along pretty well with his neighbor.

"Yeah, just…why are you hiding out in here?"

"The police told us to clear out of the apartment for the time being," Carmelita said. "They need to search the scene for evidence and they couldn't have us around." This was so convincing that Leroy accepted the story without question.

"Carmelita," Sly asked, "can I have a word with you?"

"Um…sure," she said.

"The bathroom's clean," Leroy said, and Sly led Carmelita to the bathroom and shut the door. He was about to speak when Carmelita shushed him and brought him to the far edge of the room.

"You can't tell _anyone_ what's going on!" she whispered so harshly that it felt like she was screaming at him.

"Not even Leroy? He's just an innocent―"

"Sly, I don't trust _anyone_ right now. Besides, they might come back and ask Leroy about us. We need to get out of here right now!"

"Okay, so we'll just tell Leroy that we'll be on our way and―"

"No, Sly, we can't tell Leroy we're leaving. He could tell the police." Carmelita said. Sly was now very frustrated.

"So how the hell do you propose we get out of here?" he asked.

"Through the bathroom window," Carmelita said, pointing to the small window above the toilet. Sly stared at her incredulously.

"Even if we can squeeze through that, how do you expect us to climb down from four stories up?" he asked.

"Sly, I know you can't remember anything about your past, but believe me, you're a natural climber." Sly's ears perked up suspiciously. Then again, he had chased down a few nimble thieves, and he had had to do a lot of climbing to chase them down. Without another word, he opened the small window and looked down. There was nothing beneath him but the windowsills of the floors below, so directly down was not a safe option. The fire escape of the apartment across the street was too far to jump to.

"Sorry, Carmelita, even a skilled acrobat can't climb out of here." Carmelita scoffed and grabbed at the shower curtain.

"We'll parachute down, holding this," she said.

"You're out of your mind, there's no _way_ that's going to slow our fall." They stopped arguing when they heard a knock on the front door. Sly rushed out of the bathroom and tackled Leroy before he could reach the door. Carmelita was shocked as she followed him out of the bathroom.

"Lock the door!" he said, intentionally disguising his voice. Carmelita went for the door, but the police had already kicked it open. They stared at Sly and Carmelita, dumbfounded.

"What is the meaning of this?" one of the officers asked. Sly and Carmelita were frozen, speechless. Leroy wrenched himself free of Sly, trembling worse than ever.

"Don't you two work for Interpol?" a second officer asked.

" _She_ does," a third commented, " _her_ face is all over the paper."

"And he's the 'reformed' thief," the fourth man chimed. "Well, not so reformed, I take it. Guess you thought the gunfight was sufficient to distract us before pouncing on this poor guy."

"Steve, that's _her_ apartment." Steve nodded in realization.

"Well, in any case, it looks like we'll have to bring him in for assault," the first officer said. Sly backed away from the officer and tripped over Leroy's body.

"What's got you so twitchy?" the first officer asked.

"Someone's tried to kill us!" Carmelita cried suddenly. She had hoped not to tell anyone, but if these cops were here on Interpol's orders it hardly mattered anyway, and if they weren't they might be able to help them.

"Well, that explains the gunfire," the first officer said, now looking quite concerned. "But why would you hide from us? Unless you think…"

"Of course we don't think that," Sly said. "We just left the apartment because we didn't feel safe there."

"But we knocked on this door. Why didn't you answer with Leroy?" the second officer asked.

"We were hiding in his closet," Carmelita said. "We asked Leroy not to tell anyone we were in there, and he did pretend he was alone. But he told us afterward you were cops, so we're here now to talk to you."

"That makes no sense!" the fifth officer yelled irately. "Why'd _he_ attack Leroy then?"

"How was he supposed to know you were coming back?" Leroy asked, suddenly taking on the big lie, though he wasn't quite sure why he was doing it. "He panicked when he heard the knocking and tackled me! Of course, _I_ knew it was you coming back, but I forgot to tell these two you were coming back." To Sly, the story was becoming fishier and fishier by the minute. Thankfully, though, the officers seemed to buy it. The sixth officer, who hadn't spoken yet, took a call on his walkie-talkie.

"Okay," he said to the other officers, "Interpol is coming up to check out the crime scene." Sly and Carmelita were horrified, and their expressions showed.

"What's the matter with you?" the first officer asked. "They're your employers. They're not going to kill you! Wait a minute…you think _they_ want to kill you?"

"That's bullshit!" Steve said.

"No it's not!" Sly said, and he knew the jig was up. He had to explain this very quickly and get out of there. "I went to my apartment earlier and there was a death threat. I went to Carmelita's apartment so I could feel safe tonight. Interpol officers were the only ones who knew I was over here, and then this gunfire happened. It's too much of a coincidence, it's obvious they want me dead and if they find me here they're going to take me to headquarters and I'm _sure_ they'll kill me there! You have to help us get out without them knowing we're here." All of the officers were stunned into silence. Leroy shook his head disbelievingly, but Carmelita looked like she was about to cry. The sixth officer finally talked with his voice sunken with shame.

"I already told them you were here," he mumbled. The first officer suddenly took charge.

"Go! Out the fire escape! We'll stall for you," he said. Sly and Carmelita, though they were now quite confused, obeyed. They opened the window in the back of Leroy's living room and ran down the grating to the stairs. They climbed down one level and sat at the bottom, waiting with bated breath.

They had no idea why the officers had so quickly believed their story, nor did they know why they were deliberately lying to Interpol to cover for them. But then, to their horror, they heard someone climbing up the shaft. They looked down and saw Constable Delehog running quickly up the stairs, leading two Prefecture policemen. They looked up, and Inspector Dewitt was bringing the seven men from upstairs towards the stairs from above.

It was like the pieces of the puzzle had clicked together, revealing a horrible image.

"It was a setup!" Sly shouted. "The Prefecture is in on it!"

"Now what?" Carmelita shouted. "We're cornered!"

"Come on!" Sly sprinted across the grating adjacent to the third floor, which was the only path that had not been cut off. He heard the cops from above descending the stairs, but didn't look up to see how close they were. Instead, he was looking for an open window to climb into. Suddenly, they reached the end of the grating. The officers had converged behind them, around the corner, and the sound of loading guns terrified Sly and Carmelita.

"Shit!" Sly yelled as he searched desperately for an escape. Suddenly, he looked across the end of the grating. This side of the building was facing the street, and just across from it was the pole of a streetlamp. Without warning, Sly backed up, took a running leap over the side of the fire escape and stretched his arms, hoping to catch the pole.

Carmelita screamed, but Sly now felt as if he were falling in slow motion. His reaction time increased, he was able to position his arms so that they clenched onto the pole. However, the rest of his body hit it with such force that he cried out in pain. No matter, he shimmied as fast as he could down the pole just as the officers turned the corner and aimed. Inspector Dewitt tried to push Carmelita out of the way, but she refused to move.

"Move, Carmelita, or I'll shoot you first!" Dewitt cried.

"Don't be stupid, Susan," Carmelita said. "I thought I had Cooper cornered until he jumped for that pole."

"What?" she asked. Carmelita panicked, bluffing wildly to save her own life.

"I was told in secret to keep close to Cooper so I could corner him, making it easier for _you_ to shoot him. Or were you not informed?"

"You're bluffing," Dewitt said.

"Well, while you waste time arguing with me, your target is getting away." Sly was already ducking down an alley across the street. Cursing, Dewitt ordered the men to chase after Sly. She, however, remained with Carmelita.

"Don't bullshit me, Carmelita. You were helping him escape," she said, aiming her pistol at Carmelita's skull.

"What if I'm not bluffing?" she asked. "I'm sure the boss wouldn't like it if he found out you killed the most skilled officer on his team, the one who was most valuable in trapping Cooper. Are you willing to take that chance?" Dewitt took the time to think it out, and then realized. Carmelita had suggested taking Sly to her apartment. Otherwise, they might have fled the city. She lowered her gun slowly.

"I'll find out if you lied," Dewitt warned, "and if you did, you'll die alongside Cooper." She left to join in the chase after Sly, still wondering if she had made the right decision. Carmelita wasted no time in heading back across the fire escape.

* * *

Sly could not believe the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he ran across alleyways, jumping fences, dodging dumpsters. He heard shots being fired, hitting metal or brick, but he did not turn around to see who was firing them.

Suddenly, he found himself in the neighborhood of the nightclub where Loose-Tongued Larry had been found dead, and instinct kicked in. He leapt towards a street lamp, climbed to the top, and somehow launched himself off of it onto the nearest roof. He started sprinting across, leaping on top of wires and scuttling across them, landing on pinpoint spires before leaping away, and running as fast as he could. Finally, he stopped behind a chimney, panting for breath.

The officers had not followed him to the roofs of these buildings, even though they were not nearly as tall as the apartments in Carmelita's neighborhood. Sly knew they did not have the agility, but he was wondering where he had learned it himself. Had he stopped to think what he was doing, he was sure he would not have been able to run across thin wires and land on small spires.

Where had he learned all that? He definitely hadn't learned it through Interpol training, so he concluded that he must have known how to maneuver like that when he was a thief. But no thief he ever knew could have moved the way he just did. What kind of thief had he been? What past life had he led?

He could not decipher any answers, and he knew he did not have the time or the luxury. He needed to get out of Paris, now. Uncomfortably aware that the police officers who had given chase to him could still be nearby, he found a streetlamp to shimmy down and returned to the pavement.

He did not have his cell phone with him. He had left that in Carmelita's apartment. He did not have his radio either, though Interpol officers would surely be listening to that. He did have his car keys in the breast pocket of his shirt, so the only thing Sly could think to do was to sneak back to his apartment and drive out of the city in his car.

He sighed miserably. The apartment was impossibly far from where he was right now. It would take him hours to return to it, and what good would that do if Interpol's officers were waiting for him there, guns raised?

For, Sly thought with a jolt, it was unmistakably clear that Interpol was after him, and he had no idea why. They had even enlisted the help of the Prefecture, and Sly was now sure that the police had been involved in Loose-Tongued Larry's death. Well, that explained why the investigation had been progressing slowly.

Then he remembered Chief Barkley abjectly refusing to believe his theory about a hit man, and he groaned. Was Chief Barkley in on this? He had seen Delehog and Dewitt come after him tonight, but the chief had not been with them, and it was possible he did not know what they were doing. _No_ , Sly said to himself, _Chief Barkley can't have known._ It was far more comfortable to believe this. Sly trusted Chief Barkley more than any other person he knew besides Carmelita.

Then, without warning, he heard a car turn a sharp corner, its headlights shining directly at Sly. The car came to a screeching halt next to him, and Carmelita rolled down the window.

"Get in!" she said. "I just passed Delehog on the sidewalk, and he saw me and made a call on his radio!" Sly wasted no time in opening the passenger side door and getting in the car. Carmelita took off, headed on a known path to the Autoroute.

"How did you find me?" Sly asked.

"Sly, honestly, I have no clue. Shit!" she cried, swerving out of the way of a car that had nearly hit them as it turned onto their road. Sly looked in the rearview and was crestfallen to see a police car.

"Floor it!" he cried, but Carmelita did not need telling twice. She hit the gas pedal hard, and her car took off. The police car behind her didn't turn on any sirens, which Sly knew was a bad sign. Suddenly, more gun shots from the passenger side of the cop car, but they were trying to shoot out the tires.

"Sly! I put my pistol in the glove! Take that guy out!" Sly fumbled for the latch of the glove compartment, picked up the pistol and cocked it. He then leaned precariously out the window and took good aim.

Sly was a fantastic shot, and he proved it by taking out the two front tires of the car. It swerved out of control and was forced to stop. Suddenly, to his horror, Sly saw two more cars converge on the road behind him, but soon they stopped, too, as if they had been ordered to fall back.

"Why are they stopping?" Carmelita asked.

"Who cares? Just get us out of here!" Carmelita had no more questions. She took the next ramp onto the Autoroute, heading south, and vowed to drive as far as her gas tank would allow.


	6. So Natural, So Instinctive

Sly and Carmelita were running very low on gas around Vierzon, which was about two hours away from Paris. They were still very anxious about being followed, but Sly had been checking behind him as they had driven. It was very late at night, and there had been no sign of headlights behind them, so they were pretty sure they were not being followed.

It was far too late to check into a motel, and even if they could, it was foolish to be seen anywhere without disguises, as the two of them were internationally famous. They decided it was best to sleep in the car that night, protected by a vast expanse of forestry, and look for disguises in the morning.

In the meanwhile, Carmelita parked her car as deep into a forest area as was reasonable. It was even darker amidst the shadows cast by the leaves of the forest, and when she shut off the engine of the car and turned off the headlights, it was pitch black.

Carmelita clambered into the back of the car and pulled out thick blankets from behind the front seats. She gave one to Sly and kept one for herself. Sly knew why these were available; they had been on numerous stakeouts in the civilian vehicle, some lasting long into the chilly winter nights. These blankets had helped them survive the cold in the past, and they were certainly doing their job now.

And though it was very late, the events of the night had them so worked up that they couldn't even begin to fall asleep. Rather, they sat in the darkness of the forest and started avidly discussing the threat and the subsequent attacks.

" _Why_ would the police come after me?" Sly asked, addressing the first question that was dancing in his head. "They had you cornered in that fire escape and they didn't touch you. What do they want with me?" Carmelita squirmed at the question but chose to respond.

"Sly, I have absolutely no idea," Carmelita said, "except that they might be bitter that a notorious thief such as you could possibly become one of our finest officers. A lot of people at the station feel you got off easy because of me."

"Well, why did they attack so blatantly?" Sly asked. "There's no way somebody didn't hear the gunshots, look out the window, and see _nine_ officers gunning for me. They're going to be arrested."

"Really?" Carmelita asked. "Are you sure about that?"

"What are you talking about? They're going in for attempted murder; the cops wouldn't just let them get off―" But Sly suddenly stopped talking, suddenly alarmed.

"Do you think this was a setup?" he asked, trembling.

"I'm certain this was a setup," Carmelita said grimly. "There's no way nine officers would randomly choose to kill you. This was an inside job."

"How deep do you think it goes?" Sly asked. "Somebody had to authorize this, somebody had to…Barkley!" he suddenly yelled.

"What are you talking about?" Carmelita asked.

"Chief Barkley. Who better to authorize it? He's the head of an international police organization. He's got more power than anyone in Paris short of the president!"

"Sly, that makes no sense. Barkley loves you; he says your one of the finest officers he's ever trained. You saw how reacted about the threat. He was stunned, mortified."

"He could be putting on an act."

"Yeah, but why wait two years? Why not strike earlier, when there was far less reason to trust you? Over the years, you've only proven your loyalty to Interpol more and more, shown more and more that you've rejected your criminal history."

"A history I don't even remember!" Sly cried, a thrill sweeping through his stomach. He suddenly remembered the other thing that was bothering him about tonight, and he quickly relayed it to Carmelita.

"Carmelita, when I was running from the cops, I started doing things I didn't even think possible: running across wires, climbing up pipes, bouncing off of awnings, and landing on small points. How did I know how to do that? It was so natural, so instinctive, but I don't remember ever doing anything like it before." Now it was obvious, even in the darkness blanketing them; Carmelita was shuddering with worry. Inside herself, she was struggling with internal conflict she'd been feeling for two years, which was now surfacing out of her control.

If she told Sly the truth about his amnesia, she was afraid he would leave her. She wouldn't blame him for doing that after she had lied to him for two years about his past. But she would never forgive herself and she would miss Sly fiercely. However, she felt enormously guilty about keeping this secret from Sly, and explaining it to him now would clarify why he had become a target of assassination for the police.

But fear took her, and she decided to reveal only part of the truth.

"Sly, I've spoken to counselors concerning you," she said carefully. This was true; she had accompanied Chief Barkley in meeting with psychological experts before formally employing Sly as an officer. "They think that you feel so guilty about your past that you've repressed your memories of them. That's why you don't remember anything." Sly was looking at her gravely, and she swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Interpol is after me," he said slowly.

"Yes," Carmelita said, wondering what point he was trying to make.

"That means," he said, "that I can trust no one who works at Interpol."

"Um…you're right," she said, cringing, for she knew what Sly meant.

"Then why should I believe _you_?" he bellowed, and Carmelita cringed.

"Sly, you're joking, right?" she asked, attempting to sound offhand. "I'm your closest colleague."

"Making it all the easier to set me up, because I trusted you!" Sly cried, now looking manic.

"Sly, you're not making sense―"

"NO! YOU'RE NOT MAKING SENSE! WHY WOULD I JUST 'REPRESS' THE FIRST TWENTY-ONE YEARS OF MY LIFE? WHY ARE MY COLLEAGUES TRYING TO KILL ME IF I WAS TRULY 'REFORMED?' WHY DID YOU SUGGEST GOING BACK TO YOUR APARTMENT, ONLY TO HAVE THEM GUN ME DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT? WHY WOULD YOU COME WITH ME ON THE RUN AND THROW AWAY YOUR ENTIRE CAREER? I KNOW WHY! YOU'RE LEADING THEM AFTER ME! YOU'RE GOING TO TELL THEM WHERE I AM! WELL GUESS WHAT? I'M TAKING YOUR CAR AND I'M LEAVING YOU HERE! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!" Carmelita had burst into tears, but Sly was so incensed that he felt no sympathy.

"GO ON AND BLUBBER! YOU'RE ONLY SAD THAT YOU GOT CAUGHT!"

"You're an asshole!" she cried miserably.

"WHAT? _I'M_ AN ASSHOLE FOR TRYING TO STAY ALIVE? I'M NOT AN ASSHOLE! YOU'RE JUST A BITCH!"

"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about!" Carmelita cried, and her tear-soaked face was so wrought with frustration that Sly finally stopped to catch his breath.

"How could you even _think_ that I had anything to do with this? Those gunshots could just have easily have killed me! And guess what? While you were fleeing for your life, I had to convince Inspector Dewitt that I was in on the operation so she wouldn't kill me! She was going to kill me, Sly! Does that sound like I'm in on the plot to kill you?"

"Dewitt might not have known you were in on the plot, but that doesn't mean you weren't!" Carmelita clutched her hair and screamed furiously.

"I love you!" she cried, having thought of nothing else to say. Sly now stared at her with such confusion that she almost laughed. Then, she kissed him more passionately than she ever had, clutching him, moving to press against his body, as if physical contact could convey how much love she held for him. When she broke the kiss, all the rage had vanished from Sly's countenance.

"Sly, I've loved you for the longest time, since even before you started to work for Interpol. It was always wrong of me to feel this way, a police officer falling for a criminal. But these past two years have been such a blessing. Being with you has made me a happier person. Why would I want to throw that away? Why? Does that make any sense to you?" Sly was silent for a full minute, his brain numb with shock.

"Why…didn't you tell me?" he asked when his brain had decided to start functioning again.

"I was afraid you didn't feel the same way…" she said, and admitting it made her realize how stupid that fear had been.

"Carmelita, I love you, too." Suddenly, the two were embracing, an enormous wave of relief washing over both of them. There would be no question of trust between them from this point forth. They were in love, and they were in this together.

* * *

Bentley, Penelope, and Murray were now flying back across the Pacific Ocean, the broken remains of the Clockwerk parts in tow. As mangled as the parts were, he hoped Sly would remember that they belonged to the hateful owl that had terrorized his ancestors since ancient times. That was too great a part of his past to ignore, as he reminded Murray when he had begun to complain about the whole trip.

The flight was, if anything, even more tiring than the trip down. When they finally arrived at the warehouse, Bentley was just awake enough to check the local time: December 8th, 2:00 in the morning. They'd been gone nearly three days. The three of them went to bed and fell asleep at once, not awakening until 11:00 the next morning.

Once Bentley had risen, he decided that he should check the news now that he had a decent Internet connection. What he found shocked him.

He read the story of the shootout at the apartment complex after midnight on December 5th. Apparently, a group of rogue police officers had attacked Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox and _Inspector Sly Cooper_! They had managed to flee the building and their whereabouts were currently unknown.

If he hadn't been wheelchair bound, Bentley would have tripped in his rush to find Murray and Penelope. Quickly, babbling in his panic, he relayed the news to his friends, who greeted it with equal shock and horror. Once the initial reaction of panic had subsided, the three of them finally calmed down enough to discuss their next move.

"So, Sly's not in Paris anymore?" Murray asked.

"Murray," Bentley said, "this was three days ago. He's probably not even in this continent anymore."

"How are we going to find him?" Penelope asked.

"I have no idea!" Bentley cried, and he suddenly felt hopeless. Murray and Penelope were equally dismayed; if Bentley didn't have a plan, then they knew the situation was grim.

"Well, we can't just stay here!" Murray said. "We have to go find him!"

"With what leads?" Bentley asked. "Don't get me wrong, Murray, I absolutely agree that we should find him. But without any leads, the practicality of doing so is so minimal that it is foolish to start looking for him now."

"Bentley's right," Penelope said sadly. "There's not much we can do right now."

"So…we're just going to stay here?" Murray asked, looking so dejected that Bentley was heartbroken.

"No!" he said so forcefully that Murray was taken aback. "We're not going to wait for these rogue cops to shoot us down! We have to get out of here! Pack up!" he cried, already rolling away in his wheelchair. "We're leaving tonight!"

The three thieves set out under the cover of the night sky. They took the team van on the highway, planning to head north to Belgium, but Murray saw someone on the edge of the road that made him hit his brakes and stop suddenly. Bentley nearly fell out of his wheelchair and was scolding Murray, as he had not seen who was on the road.

"I'm sorry, Bentley," he said, "but I just saw Dimitri!"

"What? That's impossible. He's supposed to be skin diving out in the Caribbean!"

"Well then, why's he knocking on your door?" Sure enough, there was a rapping noise, and Bentley turned and stared, nose to nose, at an ugly purple lizard wearing a lime-green suit and smoking a cigarette.

"For Christ's sake," Bentley said, "Penelope, let him in." Penelope opened the side door and Dimitri slithered in.

"My deepest gratitude," he said with such a silky French accent that Penelope nearly blushed.

"Murray! Been too long, bro! What you do to your ride? It's big pimpin'!" This was such a harsh return to his croaky bark of a voice that Penelope remembered she reviled this man.

"Um…thanks, Dimitri," Murray mumbled as he started driving again.

"No worries, my main man," he said in reply, "you just keep cruisin' these mean streets like you were. I need to speaks with Turtle-Dude!"

"Dimitri," Bentley said, turning his head. He had no patience for Dimitri's abhorred speech patterns tonight. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Such dirty lingo from such a suave fellow," Dimitri crooned. "What gets you so addled?"

"Dimitri!" Bentley said.

"Aight, aight, chillax, bro. I 'splain it all to you. See, I be making all kinds of bling and hitting all kinds of tail as a skin diver. But there is a hole in me, one that can't be filled by booze, blow, or bunny-fucking. I ponders this carefully, and then it hits me like a whack job by the Mafia! I am missing old partners in crime. So's I come back to Paris to find Cooper, as he's the only one who I can find!

"I shows up here three days ago, and I hears about the whack job, and I see Sly's bolted clean out of town with lovely vixen! Been envious about that ever since. If _I_ were on the run with that sexy bitch I'd tap that all the way to―"

"Dimitri!" Bentley snapped. "Unless you know something about Sly's whereabouts I'll have to ask you to be quiet."

"Sheesh, you needs to get laid, bro. You're wound tighter than a cokehead who's gone clean. Anyways, I saw them drive south outta here, but I don't follow them because vixen would throw me in the slammer! Can you imagine? All those sex-starved prisoners looking for a good ass-fucking―"

"For crying out loud!" Penelope screamed. "You've gotten even more vulgar, and I didn't think that was possible!"

"Mine apologies," he said with that sultry accent again. "I should show more restraint in front of a lady such as yourself."

"Hold on a minute," Bentley said. "Did you say south? What route were they on?"

"They's were bookin' it down A10 like they was drag-racing, but there's no point now. Like I said, that was three days ago. They could be anywhere now."

"I realize that, Dimitri. Thank you," Bentley said, hope deflating. He had thought Dimitri would have been much more informed. Then he realized that if he had been banking on Dimitri's help, he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up in the first place.

"So how's we tracking down that sexy beast?" Dimitri asked, clearly eager to go chasing after Sly ( _or_ , Bentley thought, _more likely Carmelita…_ ).

"There's no point trying to find him now," Bentley said. "They could be anywhere in the world by now." Dimitri looked disappointed, which Bentley found quite odd. Three years ago, Sly had been the one to send Dimitri behind bars. Why did he suddenly care about finding him?

"So where is we off to?" Dimitri asked.

"Belgium," Penelope said. "We need to lie low with all the violent cops around." Suddenly, without warning, the four thieves heard sirens blaring behind them.

"Shit…" Murray said, looking at his speedometer.

"It's no good pulling over," Bentley said. "They'll probably shoot us down point-blank."

"OWN THESE MOTHERFUCKERS!" Dimitri cried manically, making Penelope jump.

"Don't be crazy. We need to lose them," Bentley said.

"That's what I was saying," Dimitri said. Bentley sighed.

"Well, you weren't very clear―" But Murray stepped hard on the gas pedal, and the van took off, throwing Bentley off-balance. The tires screeched against the pavement as Dimitri whooped excitedly. Soon, the unmistakable sounds of gunshots cracked through the air. The police were trying to shoot out their tires.

As Murray swerved recklessly, Dimitri tried to stick his head out the window to yell at the police, but Penelope forced him back into his seat. Murray suddenly saw exit signs.

"Fuck this shit," he said as he suddenly veered right to catch the exit. The van careened down the ramp so fast that Bentley thought that Murray would lose control and crash the van. But Murray kept control as he weaved expertly through the town they were in, shooting down streets and narrowly passing parked cars. Soon though, there was nobody behind them, so Murray parked the van and slumped backwards in his seat, exhausted.

"Why didn't they follow us?" Penelope asked.

"They were giving us a warning," Bentley said. "That's why they used the sirens, too. It sounds like they don't want us anywhere near Paris."

"But why?" Murray asked. "Wouldn't that make it easier for them to come after us?"

"It would," Bentley said, thinking. "Unless…they don't want us near Interpol because they're hiding something."

"Like what?" Penelope asked.

"Like the whole conspiracy to kill master thieves!" Bentley cried. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"You're fucking high, dude," Dimitri said.

"I assure you, Dimitri, that I am not high. First Loose-Tongued Larry gets hit, and then Sly Cooper, the greatest thief in the world. The cops aren't stupid; they know we'll stop at nothing to get to the bottom of this conspiracy, so they drove us out of Paris. They're afraid we'll find out what they're up to."

"So…what are we gonna do?" Murray asked.

"We're going back to Paris to find out what Interpol's planning," Bentley said. This was met with a very awkward silence.

"Correction," Dimitri said. "You're not high. You're fucking insane."


	7. The Charm of Seduction

As crazy as the idea still seemed to Dimitri, the four thieves returned to Paris. They did not do so, however, without taking as many precautions as possible. Much to Murray's dismay, Bentley point-blank refused to return in the team van.

"It's too conspicuous, Murray!" he said. "It's not like the cops will just try to arrest us when they see us. They're going to be shooting to kill! We can't expose ourselves so blatantly!"

"If them coppers even try to pop a cap in me, _I'll_ expose something blatantly―"

"Oh, shut up," Penelope said, slapping Dimitri on the arm. He looked more amused than pained.

"But Bentley, what if someone finds my baby and hurts her?" Bentley kept himself from rolling his eyes. He was not surprised that Murray was so attached to the van, but found his sentimentalities to be quite melodramatic at the moment.

"Murray, we are going to hide the van in the same place we slept last night. And if somebody else tries to steal it, an alarm is set to go off on my laptop. I will also install a remote-control mechanism so that I can pilot the van from my computer, if worse comes to worse. Your van is perfectly safe, I assure you." Murray paused, scratching his head, trying to think of an objection to this proposition, but he found none.

"Thank you, Bentley," he said, emotion prevalent in his shaky voice.

"It's quite all right, Murray," Bentley said, patting him on the arm.

The van was now well out of sight in the middle of a grove, which was so well hidden in the trees that even Murray was satisfied. Of course, now they needed another vehicle, and Bentley also insisted that they wear disguises. Fortunately, the van carried some of their own disguises from years past. Before too long, Bentley was a retired baseball player, Murray was a punk, Penelope posed as an esteemed businesswoman, and Dimitri appeared to be the worst kind of tourist.

"This shirt got tight on me, what?" he said, stretching the fabric to see how much room was spared. "Shrinkage in the wash, I'm sure."

"No," Penelope said, "I think you're just getting fatter." Dimitri looked affronted, but the rest of them laughed and he soon joined in.

"You got yourself one sassy pair of lips since last we rumbled together!" he said. "It gets me hot with le passion!"

"Cool it, stud," Bentley said. "She's with me."

"Hey, I can dream," Dimitri mumbled.

The disguise situation now cleared up, the gang just needed a car to replace their van. Their only candidate was a mini-van, as one of its seats would have to be removed so Bentley would have space for his wheelchair. They scanned the roadways, and the first candidate they found was plain enough for Bentley's liking. It was an ordinary navy blue, and the license plate was a random arrangement of letters and numbers. Murray and Dimitri stopped the car―Murray looked especially intimidating with the studs on his gloves and the false piercings―and the owner was soon relieved of his vehicle. Murray removed one of the seats in the back of the van and threw it unceremoniously into an alleyway. He then lifted Bentley into the vacated space, and the other three quickly boarded the vehicle. Murray drove off, knowing the police would not be far behind, as the vehicle's rightful owner was talking manically on his cell phone.

Thankfully, they left the small town without incident, and they were driving south back to Paris. It was now mid-afternoon on a Sunday, so they met very little traffic. On the car ride they discussed their next move.

"We need a safe house," Bentley said, "and it can't be the warehouse we were staying in before. It would be foolish to return there."

"Understood," Murray said. "Should I just drive around until we find one?" Bentley sighed.

"I guess. There's really no other way…" Murray nodded and Bentley moved on to more pressing matters.

"How are we going to infiltrate Interpol?" he asked.

"Bentley, honey, are you sure we should be risking that?" Penelope asked.

"The longer we wait, the more time Interpol has to find us and kill us. We need to strike as soon as possible."

"Turtle-Dude, you shoulda seen the security around that place. It's tighter than the tightest woman I've ever laid! You want to penetrate that place, you'll need to get good and lubricated, if you know what I mean." Dimitri gave such an exaggerated wink to Penelope that she chortled in spite of herself.

"Innuendo notwithstanding," Bentley said, forcing himself not to smile as well, "I'll need more specifics before we can commence with a plan of attack."

"Oh, if it's specifics you want, I gots the goods. She was the most beautiful bunny rabbit, about twenty years old, and she had these tits like you wouldn't believe but that was nothing compared to her―"

"I meant specifics about Interpol!" Bentley yelled as Penelope was laughing again.

"My sincerest apologies," Dimitri crooned with that sultry accent, but ruined the effect by winking again at Penelope. She was now blushing furiously as she tried to stifle her laughter. "Interpol's got all the juice! Cameras, keycard access, codes, patrols, you name it! You even try to touch that place without a badge, you're arrested on the spot, or whacked, in our case."

"I see," Bentley said. "That's the information I wanted to hear. Now, before we make any plans to infiltrate their headquarters, we'll need to perform a little reconnaissance to make sure we know exactly what to expect. Our best recon man, sadly, is not with us. One of us will have to do the job in his stead.

"I refuse to send you out into the field alone, Penelope. Murray, quite frankly, you're a big target and you aren't that light on your feet. I am not able to access the best vantage points in this wheelchair. So, the only decent candidate for this mission is…"

" _Moi_! Fear not, Turtle-Dude, for I shall not fail you! I slinks through the narrowest alleyways and hide in the darkest shadows!"

"Believe me, Dimitri, I wish I could share your confidence. But Sly was able to tail you easily three years ago, and that was when you were flanked by an army of guards." Dimitri looked like he had just been punched. Murray laughed.

"Well…" Dimitri said, "I shall show the improvement! Whatever it takes to bring back le Cooper! I shall overturn no stone, or leave all stones unturned…something like that."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Bentley said, more to reassure himself than Dimitri.

* * *

Sly and Carmelita had been on the run for four days. It was now Sunday the 9th, and the two of them, dressed like tourists, were tanning on Venice Beach. They had arrived by plane the day before (using fake names, of course) and they were staying at a nearby hotel.

Sly had to admit that it was as good a hiding place as any. Carmelita had never made a prolonged trip to the United States ("I may have stopped by once or twice for an arrest," she had said to Sly), and Sly could not remember ever being in the country at all. Carmelita had kept mum about his excursion of Mesa City, which Sly seemed not to have noticed. Nevertheless, she had decided against going to Utah at all costs.

America's police were not getting along too well with Interpol, so they had decided this was the best place to be at the moment. The weather was also pleasant, so Sly had found no reason to complain. If anything, he was enjoying himself.

Lying on the beach, tanning in the bright sun, they felt worlds away from their problems at Interpol. Needless to say, they had both been terminated from the police department, so they were missing no obligations to stay here. They simply allowed themselves to relax in the sun.

Carmelita was wearing a blue bathing suit and large sunglasses. The straps of her top were resting near her elbows, as she wanted to avoid a tan line. This was foolish, as it was impossible to tan with so much fur, but Sly had found no reason to object. Sly, who of course normally wore no pants, was lying in the sun without any clothing. It felt a bit odd, almost as if he was supposed to be lying with Carmelita in a private bed, not in the middle of a crowded beach. However, no one heeded him any mind.

They had been in the beach for a while now, and Carmelita rose and moved the straps back onto her shoulders. A few of the guys around her seemed disappointed, but she did not notice any of them. Sly gave them all vindictive glares.

"It's getting pretty hot out here," Carmelita said casually. Sly could have sworn an alligator next to him say "Yeah, it is," but he knew it was best not to make a scene.

"I know what you mean. Back to the air-conditioned hotel room, then?"

Carmelita smiled wickedly, knowing exactly what Sly was implying. "Sure, why not?" And as they left the beach, Sly made a deliberate point to take Carmelita's hand in his own.

When they reached the hotel room, it was to find that the sheets had been changed. Sly smiled, remembering exactly what had happened to the sheets the night before. He was looking forward to a repeat performance. Carmelita shut and locked the door behind them, kissed Sly so tantalizingly that he nearly through her onto the bed and took her, and then broke away.

"Let me change into something more appropriate," she said, taking her suitcase with her into the bathroom, leaving Sly to wonder what could be more appropriate than that scandalous two-piece swimsuit. He lied down on the bed in an attempt to relax, but his stomach was squirming anxiously.

He had to admit that away from all the stresses of daily work as a police officer, especially away from the death threats and the attempts on his life, sex with Carmelita the night before had been the best he'd ever had. He was not sure whether to tell her this, as it implied that she had been less than satisfying every time beforehand, though this was far from the truth.

He was just imagining what Carmelita could be wearing when she stepped out of the bathroom, and his mouth fell open. She was wearing a blue, semi-transparent negligee that clung tightly to her skin, and from what Sly could tell she was wearing nothing underneath it. Carmelita smiled lasciviously, and Sly had to admit she was very good at alluring him. Her saunter seemed completely natural, her eyes touched with the charm of seduction. Sly could almost feel his blood flowing where it needed to be.

"Do you like it?" Carmelita asked. The question was completely pointless but Sly followed along.

"Is blue your favorite color?" he asked in an off-hand manner.

"Not particularly," Carmelita said, "but I know it's yours…" Carmelita was now crawling towards him on the bed. The low neckline of the negligee made her cleavage most visible, but Sly pretended not to notice.

"You know," he said, "this is a nice gesture and all, but I'm just not in the mood right now."

"Sly, that only worked the first time you tried it," Carmelita said, "but I can tell your body is saying otherwise." Sly looked down and laughed. A certain appendage was indeed giving him away.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound reluctant, but he was smiling. Soon they were rolling across the bed, embracing passionately, kissing furiously, the negligee lying forgotten on the hotel floor.

* * *

Dimitri was now lurking in the Paris streets, headed for the teal waypoint visible through his Binocucom. Contrary to Bentley's fears, he was taking the mission very seriously. Bentley had expected him to show off by slinking erratically, shifting suddenly to place his back against the wall, turning what was supposed to be a covert mission into a display of lewd theatrics. Dimitri, however, did no such thing. He was poised, focused, almost feverish, and the others were at a loss to why.

Even more surprising was that when Dimitri was on his game, he was _good_. He avoided the patrols outside of Interpol with relative ease, and as he slinked around the building's perimeter, he took pictures of anything that could be interesting. Bentley had asked for secret entrances, guard profiles, and apparent weaknesses in security. Dimitri delivered, taking pictures of ventilation shafts and weak points in the building's infrastructure; officers who were patrolling, smoking their cigars; and even areas where security seemed to be a bit lax. Bentley did not hide how impressed he was.

"Hey man," Dimitri said as he was returning to the safe house, "keep in mind I had a whole money-laundry operation down in the pits."

" _I think the word you're searching for is 'money-laundering'_ ," Bentley said.

"Whatev," Dimitri said, then suddenly he was tackled out of nowhere by a cop.

"Gah! Get yo' fucking hands off me, you fucking sausage!" Dimtiri shouted. Bentley instantly shut off the feed to Dimitri's Binocucom. He looked at the other gang members, horrified.

"You don't think he's…?" Murray said.

"I don't know…" Bentley said. Without another word, Murray rose and left the safe house, which was actually an abandoned apartment complex.

"Murray, wait!" Bentley cried, but he was already gone.

Bentley and Penelope waited anxiously for word from Murray. The seconds ticked by slowly, and there was no call from Murray's Binocucom. Bentley stared at his hands, trying to absorb every detail of his fingers. Penelope kept looking around the room, checking her wristwatch frantically, as if expecting a call at a certain time.

As the minutes wore on, Bentley and Penelope became more and more panicked. Dimitri hadn't been that far when he was attacked. What could be taking Murray so long? Had he been attacked too? This question burned hottest in their minds, and the possibility that Murray had been captured soon became more and more real.

After ten minutes of this self-induced agony, Bentley conceded, making to leave just as Murray had done. Penelope stopped him.

"I have to find Murray," Bentley said. "Get out of the way."

"I can't let you go out there! If you get captured, I don't know what I will do."

"If _Murray_ gets captured, I don't know what _I_ will do."

"Please, Bentley, if anything happens to him we'll find out eventually. I don't want you risking your neck. If you get captured I'll be the only one left and there's _no way_ I'll be able to break into Interpol by myself and then all hope for bringing Sly home is lost." Bentley let those words sink in and realized that Penelope was right. He was about to return to his laptop when he heard puffing outside. He opened the door and let Murray in.

"Jesus, that was close," he said, alarming Bentley.

"Murray, just what the hell happened?"

"Dimitri got attacked. By a cop," said Murray through gasping breath, "He's okay, though. They didn't kill him. Brought him into the station. I was going to follow, but I accidentally stepped on some litter. The guy who had Dimitri turned and I bolted. I don't think he recognized me; he knew Dimitri because of the Binocucom. He was holding onto it." Bentley was relieved at these words; he now knew that Dimitri was okay. However, this presented far more challenges than initially planned.

"Well, it looks like now we have two objectives: find out what's going on with Sly and rescue Dimitri from Interpol. I just hope Dimitri doesn't give us away."

"What do you mean?" Murray asked.

"I mean that's the only reason he wasn't killed on the spot, right? They'll want to know where the rest of us are. I just hope he keeps a cool head." And as Bentley said that, the three thieves sighed, for they all knew that Dimitri was the last person they would depend on to keep a cool head.

* * *

Sly and Carmelita were panting, lying adjacent on the bed, holding hands and smiling in bliss. That romp had been incredible, even better than the night before. Sly turned to Carmelita and said playfully, "Good thing we're incompatible, right?" Since they were two different species of animal, there was no chance of impregnating Carmelita.

Suddenly, Carmelita turned away and said sadly, "I know." Sly turned next to her and wrapped an arm around her side.

"What's the matter?" he asked, kissing her neck.

"It's…" she said, stalling, because she wasn't sure what she wanted to say. "It's just, I'm still worried that Interpol will find you. You know how ruthless they are, Sly. They're the best in the business. How long can we keep running from them?"

"Don't underestimate our abilities," Sly said. "We've both worked for Interpol, you for a long time. We know their weaknesses. For example, they can't come here without permission from the US government, and we know the US doesn't trust them. That's why we chose to come here."

"But Sly, what about the police here?" Carmelita asked.

"We haven't done anything wrong here, have we? They can't arrest us without a warrant, and we're keeping our muzzles clean, as you know. And they won't validate an Interpol warrant," he added before Carmelita could object. "You know they don't trust them." It felt weird to refer to Interpol as "them," Sly realized. It must have felt even weirder for Carmelita to hear.

"Okay, Sly," she said, "I trust you." And as Sly kissed her again, she let herself go, losing herself in his arms, as if he was the safest refuge in the world. And Sly kissed her back, offering her his comfort, making her feel more secure than she had felt in a long time. And as the kiss continued, Sly felt moisture trickling down his chest that could only be Carmelita's tears.

* * *

Dimitri was, once again, inside a small, dingy metal cage. He had been held once before by Interpol, arrested without warning while trying to teach ballroom dancing to people on a cruise ship. Interpol had initially released him for good behavior, but they had been working undercover on the cruise ship based on an anonymous tip. They had arrested Dimitri the same day after finding crack in his room. They had taken him in even as Dimitri had sworn the crack belonged to a friend.

Now, Dimitri knew he was here to answer questions about the Cooper Gang. But if he wanted his chance, his chance to find Sly once more, he knew he would have to persevere no matter what amounts of torture he would have to endure. It was obvious Interpol was working above the law. They had thrown him into the cell hours ago, with no regard to his physical well-being, and shut him in without food or water, even though he had complained of hunger and thirst.

Now, however, a burly officer unlocked the cage, walked in, and shut the door behind him. He was a rhinoceros with a large horn positioned on his snout and a ruthless expression on his face. Dimitri tried to keep his composure, but he quaked at the officer's size, and trembled when he saw that he was carrying a Taser.

"They tell me you're not the brightest bloke," he said, and Dimitri was taken aback by the staunch British accent, "but I know better. You ran that money-laundering operation here three years ago. You're no git. So, you'll soon realize that unless you tell me everything you know about the Cooper Gang's whereabouts, I'm going to shock you so violently that you'll be left twitching like a blighter for a month. Is that clear?" Dimitri nodded, unwilling to goad the officer any more than he had to.

"Where's the Cooper Gang?" the officer asked bluntly.

"I don't know," Dimitri said, and the officer shocked him, briefly enough to keep Dimitri conscious but long enough to impress upon him the pain. When Dimitri's body went limp, the officer spoke.

"Don't take me for a git, Dimitri. You were carrying a Binocucom when my boy in the field arrested you. That's trademark Cooper Gang technology. You're obviously in contact with at least one of the members of the Cooper Gang! Now, tell me! Who were you contacting?"

"W…wouldn't you like to know?" Dimitri said, and the officer shocked him harder, longer, and Dimitri started to cry in pain, but he knew that he would not break. His life, his freedom, and his revenge depended on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now! Let me know if you're interested in me continuing this. Thanks for reading.


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